Days That Fade Like Memories
by TolkienGirl
Summary: When Dad leaves them in a backwoods Oregon cabin and takes off on a hunt, Sam and Dean befriend two sisters and prepare to put in a few lazy summer days- but danger, of course, is never far off. Teen!Chesters, OFCs. No slash (duh), just brotherly feels and angst and fluff and supernatural suspense and some summertime romance.
1. Emily

**A/N: Ok, so this is my first multi-chapter for SPN. I am quite excited by it, and though I vowed to myself that I wouldn't publish any of it until it was finished-it's making very good headway and I am nearly at the halfway point (it's going to be 20 chapters total). So here it is.**

**A couple notes...**

**1) Rating. It's T for language, some violence, and some of what I have named "Deannuendoes." However, mostly this fic is pretty clean.**

**2) OC's. Yes, they are here-and the POVs are shared between Sam, Dean, and my two OFCs. I know that this may be a turn-off for some people, but I stand by the quality of the characters in this work. Yes, there will be some romance-it's the freaking adorable Teen!Chesters, and it's summertime! But by my love of fandoms, I promise that there is not a Mary-Sue in sight here.**

**3) Other stuff...some headcanon related to my other works ("Habit", "Remedy"-but this is a stand-alone fic).**

**4) Enjoy! Updates will be swift-I already am working on the ninth chapter. And please, review. All commentary is welcome! I will update faster if I'm hearing comments :)**

_Emily_

It isn't supposed to be this warm yet, because it's only June, but the thermometer reads eighty-five degrees and the local (or at least, nearest- local means thirty-five miles away) thrifty-shopper has sold their last pair of shorts.

Emily hates shorts.

To be more exact, Emily hates her knees, which have always seemed a bit knobby…especially with the way her legs are otherwise kind of awkward and stick-like.

She'd worn her jeans yesterday, in an (ironically conservative) rebellion, but Fahrenheit's decree won the battle and so today, shorts it is.

Rachael, who is eighteen and as frustratingly perfect as older sisters always seem to be, absolutely loves shorts season. But then Rachael's legs are long and slim and curvy and tan in a way that make all the boys' heads turn.

_Ewww._ Emily knows that fourteen (and-a-triumphant-half) is, apparently, too young to pass judgment on the whole boy thing, but she doesn't really care. For a while know, she's been of one opinion-boys are weird and loud and altogether kind of disgusting. Emily used to like them well enough, a long time ago, when they just caught frogs with you and didn't bring up _fairytale kisses_ of all things and then _actually try to kiss you._

She glowers at a stray thread on her detestable shorts, flexes her toes to hear the faint _squeak_ of her new sneakers. That was just Todd. Todd was strange. Or he got to be strange, when his voice changed and his whole body seemed like an ill-fitted suit, all gangly and just hanging on him. Seems like all those awkward growth spurts messed with his mind, 'cause when he was little and chubby and a consummate frog-catcher, he didn't go on about dumb stuff like _kissing_.

Not that she sees Todd anymore. Not since last year. Not since-

A puff of hot air, too lazy to be called a breeze tickles her neck. She shifts, letting the heaviness of her hair unstick itself from her skin and sway behind her. Her hair is thick, and almost pretty sometimes—brown, with glints of copper when the sun hits it (she likes to call it chestnut)—but today it's a frizzed-out, burr-like mess.

_Stupid hair. Stupid heat. Stupid shorts._

And there it is again.

Heck, she doesn't know why, but she'd thought that the one good thing about Oregon was that it would be cooler. Looking on the bright side, so to speak, when Dad had walked out eight months ago for his Barbie colleague and left Mom with more mortgage than she could even pretend to handle.

They got out of D.C. and came up here because Mom grew up in Oregon, and they found a backwoods place that was being foreclosed on by a bank with a name that was longer than the main street of the nearest town. Then they bought it.

And it isn't supposed to be hot in June here.

Emily stands up, because the warped boards of the front-porch steps are uncomfortable, and because sitting still isn't a good idea when she starts thinking about Dad. She knows this. It's too easy to start remembering him, and let his laugh play through her head like snatches from an old song, or think about how his eyes crinkled up when he smiled or how his voice got hard and jagged when he was angry, or worst of all how he used to fold up like one of those stupid little puzzle boxes when he lied. When she lets that happen, when she lets all those broken pieces fall back into the fractured shapes they formed in her old life, she feels like she wants to stop breathing. She feels like she's choking. She feels like _she_ _misses him._

And she can't feel that.

The something-that-is-too-lazy-to-be-a-breeze is whispering among the treetops, slipping fingertips under the curving tips of the newly unfurling leaves. Emily glances once over her shoulder at the old house. She's gotten used to it, kind of. The roof is a little saggy and Mom keeps meaning to get a handyman to come around and fix the leak in Rachael's closet, but it's got forest-green shutters against chocolate-colored slat siding, and Emily likes how much it looks like the house of The Three Bears in the dog-eared old book that Dad-that she used to like when she was little.

Emily kicks at a clump of dirt that had, admittedly, been minding its own business. Thinking about kid books _and_ Dad in one afternoon makes her feel pretty lousy, because she _knows_ that she's probably kind of childish for her age...she just finished her freshman year of high-school, for crying out loud!...but she can't _really_ help it. She tries out Rachael's makeup when her sister isn't home and she swears (just a bit) when she bangs her head on the low-hanging shelf over the bathroom sink. But for all that, she doesn't know how the rest of the whole "growing up" thing works.

Being grown-up seems to suck pretty bad, actually. Sure, Rachael is pretty and popular, and is dating a guy she met in her senior class, the football captain, actually...and maybe that's what Emily should want, but she doesn't because she hears sometimes how Dustin and Rachael curse each other out in the flickering glow of the porch light. Rachael comes in tight-shouldered and hard-eyed, those nights, and Emily thinks that she looks like she wants to cry but she _doesn't_, not ever.

Being grown-up hasn't been too kind to Mom, either. Not since Dad went off with '_That Bitch'_ as Rachael calls her-calls her much worse when Mom isn't around, frames the terrible words with, "M'sorry, Em, I just...that's what she is. I wish you didn't have to hear my crap, but I gotta tell someone and you know I can't say anything much about it to Mom..."

Emily's pretty sure that Mom stopped smiling after-everything. She laughs more than ever, now, but it's high and brittle and pitchy, like hairline fractures sliding through a plate of glass. Poke it with a finger and it shatters into a million shards.

Emily doesn't want to laugh like Mom, or swear like Rachael does, with perfect hair all rucked up by her perfectly varnished nails.

Emily _does_ miss her Dad, and she shouldn't, because she knows he's a '_Sick, Twisted Bastard'_ (Rachael again) and Emily thinks that maybe she should have been better about knowing when he lied.

She's always been good at puzzle boxes, after all.

Emily puts her thoughts away and considers the possibility of wading into the pond on the other side of the hedgerow. Maybe she'll even keep her sneakers on, because there's something about feeling water seep in around canvas in rubber that's oddly pleasant. But her sneakers are new, and Mom made a big deal about them, so she'd better leave well enough alone.

Doesn't mean she can't go wading, though.

The water is glittering in the golden light of the late day sun, and Emily raises her hand to shade her eyes. It's blindingly bright, even at four o'clock, casting The Forest on the other side of the pond into near-blackness.

The Forest. When she was eight, Emily thought that capitalizing random words was the coolest thing ever, but she's long since dropped the illusion. However, The Forest is a rather sinister exception- oh, it's pretty and probably completely harmless, but there's something so _thick_ about it that she just can't shake a feeling of foreboding. Of importance. Of the need for capitals.

_Good you do most of your talking to yourself, freak,_ she chides inwardly. _Rachael'd never let you hear the end of this._

She squats down at the reeds on the edge of the pond and tugs off her shoes, one after the other. The water is warmer than it was two weeks ago, sure, but it's still refreshing and she lets her feet sink deeper into the malleable mud beneath the surface.

_Ahhh..._

She lets her eyes flutter shut. Standing there, ankle-deep in the still waters of the pond-if the refreshment could be to her mind as it is to her skin, she'd never have to talk herself out of a worked-up anxiety-fest again.

A reed snaps behind her.

The reflexive jolt of awareness coils tight in her stomach, and she snaps around, loses balance-and plops down to an ignominious seat six inches deep in pond-water.

_Crap._

"Hey-I'm really, really sorry," says a voice, and she raises her eyes to meet those of her would-be attacker...or startler...or (_is startler even a word?_)

It's a boy.

Of course it is.

Emily's temper is about to spike-Rachael's not the only one with anger-control problems, at least not always-but she has to admit, even in the embarrassment of the moment, that this particular boy is..._interesting._

He looks to be around her age-much taller, but still with a bit of a baby face and that same slight gangliness to his long limbs that got the hapless Todd in so much trouble. But then again, this boy carries himself with a lot more grace than Todd did-and his face...well, there's an _earnestness_ about it, Emily can see that straight off-and it may still be a kid's face, round and unlined, but the strong jawline and intelligent brow half-hidden under floppy bangs (a shade darker than her hair) match the intriguing, inexplicable _something_ in his brown, hazel-flecked eyes.

Somehow, Emily thinks that this boy won't care much about frogs _or_ kissing. Perhaps there's a third alternative, that she's failed to evaluate.

Problem is, she has no idea what that might be.

He's a mystery all around, then-she has no idea where he came from, what he's doing here, or why she kind of thinks he's..._cute_.

_No no no._ _Not good._ She tries desperately to pull herself together. "Who are _you_?" she demands, giving him as cold a look as she can when she's sopping wet but still sticky and hot.

The boy reaches out a tentative hand to help her up. It's long-fingered, clever, and doesn't look so young as the rest of him. "We...uh...I just- I guess we're neighbors. I was exploring."

"Oh. Well. You shouldn't startle people." The words kind of fade off a bit as she takes his outstretched hand, 'cause he's really-strong.

"Sorry," he says again, and the corners of his eyes crinkle up a bit, like he's half holding back a smile.

She should probably be mad, but she can't quite bring herself to go all Rachael on him. She doesn't let go of his hand quite yet. Gives it a quick, tight shake. "I'm Emily," she murmurs, and thinks it was supposed to come out louder. Bolder.

He doesn't seem to mind that her voice was almost squeaky. He just smiles for real this time and squeezes her hand. "Sam," he says.


	2. Sam

_Sam_

Sam is bored.

To be more specific, actually, Sam is tired, stiff-jointed, fed-up, and pretty extremely pissed-off. But dealing with all of _that_ isn't going to end prettily, so he'll focus on being bored.

He hasn't done much today- moved luggage from car to cabin, and it's only now that he's moving it to the makeshift bedroom.

His duffel falls to the gritty pine floor with a thud, and he rubs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. It's freaking Oregon. It's only June. He's not sure why it's so damn hot.

Swearing always seems to help Dad, and Dean, so he lets loose a string of curse-words under his breath and then sinks down beside his lumpy bag of belongings.

So. This is Dad's idea of summer vacation.

Some years ago- it feels like an age, but Sam knows it's more recent than he'd like it to be- Dean had said they wouldn't be renting any more houses. He'd been right for quite some time...it had been an endless stream of motels from one end of the Continental States to the other, with the occasional stop at Bobby's or Caleb's or Pastor Jim's, and then back into the same dreadful pattern.

Until now.

Pretty much out of the blue, Dad decided that they they were going to take a hunting cabin in a godforsaken patch of Oregonian forest, and it may not be really renting, or even really a house, but it's the closest thing to one they've had in a while.

That in itself, Sam reflects, is pretty pathetic. For one thing, it's not like Sam doesn't like forests- he does- or that he isn't glad to skip the motel scene for a few days (he is), but this shack barely deserves the name of dwelling, the floors are gray with dirt, the spiders have been having some sort of web-spinning festival in every nook and cranny, and-

Dad's still not speaking to Dean.

Which is the root of what's been actually grating on Sam for the past two-hundred miles.

For one thing, it's his fault...because Sam's pretty sure (from what he's pieced together) that the fight started over the fact that Dean was giving Sam a bit freer reign lately, letting Sam go out on his own occasionally...for which Sam's immensely grateful, because he's _fifteen,_ for crying out loud, and sometimes he just wants _to be alone_. 'Course, Dad wasn't too pleased about being kept out of the loop, and so followed some sort of lecture that Dean usually would have ended with a couple dozen "Yessirs" but instead, for some reason, decided to argue with.  
Not that Sam blames him. Sam could win a gold star for arguing with Dad's lectures, if people gave gold stars for that kind of thing (they don't).

He has half an idea why Dean was arguing-Sam knows, if Dad doesn't, that Dean quit smoking two weeks ago and has been crazy with the jitters ever since. Couple that with Dean's only occasional point of defiance- Sam- and you had the makings for an unexpected and decidedly unpleasant argument.

Dad sure hadn't taken it well- he'd bellowed a bit and then turned the tables by shutting up. Which he never would have done with Sam, because silence is defeat where oldest and youngest Winchesters' battles are concerned- but for Dean, it's some sort of messed-up checkmate.

And it's not fair, Sam thinks angrily, because it's not like Dean is the problem kid, most of the time, and what's worse is that Dad just freezes him out because he knows that that gets to him more than anything.

The fact that the only thing Dad _really_ seems to know about Dean is what hurts him makes Sam so mad he wishes that he had an extra foot of height, an extra fifty pounds on, and John Winchester in a headlock.

Not that Dad's even here. He'd dumped them this morning and told Sam- as though the message wasn't meant for Dean, even though it was- that he was heading thirty miles north to deal with a vengeful spirit. "Listen to your brother," he'd finished, but he hadn't had any words for said brother, even though Dean was standing _right there_.

"_Say something to him, dammit_," Sam had snapped back- or had wanted to, but the words wouldn't come. So the Impala rumbled off, and they stood there like statues- and Sam can't remember what Dean looked like at five-years-old and miserable, but when he catches a glimpse of his brother's expression he figures that this must have been it.

"Dude..." he starts weakly, and Dean's jaw juts and stiffens like it always does when Sam's caught him in a moment of unguardedness. He's all of nineteen again, disdainful worlds ahead of a gawky younger brother.

"Get your crap sorted out, Sam," he says curtly. "This cabin's a mess."

Not much effort was made for cleaning; the luggage sat in the middle of the floor and Dean found some old beer in the grungy fridge and made a face when he tasted it. Finally Sam got sick of watching the anguished look flicker in and out of Dean's eyes, dragged his duffel to the bedroom- and here he is.

There's a couple of sagging bunks against one wall, and some sort of rustic, rotted piece of furniture that doesn't deserve to be called an armoire. 'Course, Sam's the only one who would think of calling it that anyway. Fancy names for furniture aren't exactly highly valued in the Winchester family vocabulary.

_Great place_, Sam thinks, with all the sarcasm he can muster (it's quite a lot, in fact- he's been working on storing it up ever since he turned twelve). It's odd for Dad to do this- there must be a case nearby, or something, but he hasn't told them...or to be more accurate, he hasn't told _Dean_, so Dean hasn't told Sam.

Almost more than the silent treatment, Sam imagines, the being-cut-out-of-a-hunt must sting his older brother. It's not that Dad never goes off solo- less and less now that his sons are old enough to help, of course, but there's the occasional case that he'd rather take on his own. Somehow, Sam doubts that this one qualifies. No, this is probably a perfect three-man hunt...turned one-man because John Winchester has a stubborn streak a mile wide.

Sam had been witness to part of the argument, but he'd come in on the tail end...so he's not quite certain what Dean did to piss Dad off _so_ badly.

Dean's sure not telling.

Sam can't take it anymore. He shoots the armoire a baleful glare- there's a skittering noise inside that he really doesn't want to investigate- and heads into the main area, that's too empty to be called a kitchen, too dirty to be called a living room.

"Hey," he says, and Dean looks up. He's at the table. Cleaning his knives, duffel slumped beside him. Apparently weaponry comes before settling in.

"Yeah?" The word's bitten off.

There's a dozen things Sam wants to say, so he doesn't say any of them. "I'm gonna go out for a bit. Just explore."

He half expects Dean to say _no, letting you go out on your own is what screwed me over in the first place_, but he just gives a quick nod.

"Stay close by."

"I'll be back in half an hour, tops," says Sam, and ordinarily he'd be snarking about the 'Stay close by,' but Dean's sacrificed enough for Sam's freedom, so he lets it go.

When he steps outside, the thick air rolls over him, but at least it's not dank like the air inside the cabin. Sam doesn't know how Dean can stand it. Sam doesn't know how Dean stands a lot of things.

He shuffles down the dirt path that leads out of the clearing. On their way up, through the trees, he'd caught the glimpse of water. Wading sounds awesome right about now.

Of course, water probably means Kelpies. That'd be just his luck.

When he reaches the pond, however, it looks innocent enough-sunlight glinting of silver-green water, hemmed in by a spear-wall of reeds. For the first time, Sam thinks the heat's not so terrible after all...if it means he gets to swim for the first time in three years, it'll be almost worth it.

It's then that he realizes he's not alone.

She hasn't seen him yet- of course she hasn't, because her back's turned to him...and all he sees is long, thin limbs and a rather great quantity of chestnut hair, glinting in the sun. For a second he wonders if this is a trick-he hadn't seen any other houses along this road-and that maybe she's a water sprite, a naiad, waiting for him to come closer...

But then it occurs to him that naiads don't wear pink plaid shirts and ragged shorts, and it's unlikely that their shoulders are sunburned.

So he says, "Hey," as pleasantly as he can (or as least-awkwardly...he's not Dean, all suavity and cheesy one-liners that are stupid on paper but that he somehow makes work).

Apparently the 'hey' wasn't a good idea. She gets startled, does a little half-twist, half-jump-and falls into the shallow water with a tremendous splash.

Oh, he's gone and done it now.

She looks quite ready to rip his head off, and Sam figures he should probably be concerned about this, but he's too busy noticing that she's kind of really pretty. The edges of her aureole of hair are almost golden, with the sun behind her, and her snapping blue eyes draw him in. Between the browns and greens and hazels that make up the Winchester eyes, Sam's always been fascinated by blue.

He says something stupid about being neighbors (he leaves out the ramshackle hunter's lair part), and helps her up, and somewhere in the course of all that she stops looking angry.

Her name is Emily.

"Sam," he says.

"Can I push you into the pond too, Sam?" she asks, but he can tell she's just teasing.

"Hey, I didn't push. I just..."

"Freaked me out. Right. Got it." She certainly has some spunk, but he wonders if she's just doing it to cover up her shyness- at least if the way she keeps glancing up at him from under long lashes is anything to go by.

"So- um, you live around here," he says, lamely...and then wonders if it's creepy. Does he look like a stalker? He hopes not.

"Yeah. I didn't know we had neighbors, though."

"Just got here," he explains. That fact isn't exactly bursting with secrets, but it kind of is, because everything about his life is fraught with mystery...and her clear eyes seem to see a little too much. But maybe he's just imagining that.

"We moved here eight months ago," she says, and he's not sure if he's imagining the little edge that's crept into her tone. As though the words taste wrong. She changes the subject before he can really analyze it. "You have a family?"

"It's just me and my brother and my dad," he says slowly, and he knows that those words-and the way he can't help but say them-sometimes throws people off. But Emily just looks thoughtful. "Funny. It's just me and my sister and my mom."

They don't ask any questions. It makes the silence companionable. At some point they both seem to wonder why they're still standing at the pond's edge and so they end up sitting on the grassy bank.

Emily's shorts are sopping, but she doesn't complain. Sam wouldn't have expected that from a girl.

"What do you like to do in the summer?" Emily asks. "I mean, when it's not boiling out?"

"Read," Sam answers, and yes it's dorky, and yes, Dean would laugh (but Dean would laugh at a lot more than that, with this situation..._ 'scared her into a pond, Sam-real smooth'..._), but it's true, Sam loves a good book, and the yellowed paperbacks squashed at the bottom of his duffel are the longest-lasting friends he's ever had.

What's more, Emily doesn't look utterly repulsed. "I like to read, too," she murmurs, letting her hair fall forward over her shoulders. "'Specially fantasy."

Sam nods appreciatively. "Like...fantasy like Tolkien?"

Her eyes light up, and his heart skips a quick, stupid little beat. "Yes! I finally made it through _Lord of the Rings _last year and it was...it was _amazing_."

He grins, delicately refraining from mentioning that he'd zipped through the trilogy at about nine years old, because they were driving from Tucson to New Hampshire, and Sam had just learned about The Family Business a couple of months before and he was eager to fill his mind with thoughts of a different kind of quest so he didn't go crazy.

"Tolkien's the best," is all he says, for the moment. "My brother read _The Hobbit_ to me when I was little."

"My dad- " she starts and then stops short. It's like a lightbulb clicking off, quick and final. "I read it when I was little too."

"Reading's pretty good when there's nothing else to do," Sam offers, to change the subject.

"I know- it's crazy boring here." She sighs. "Don't know what I'd do without my books."

Sam thinks about _boring_ again, and how he isn't bored, now, and maybe he wasn't even before...and he thinks of Dad again, and Dean- and he should probably be heading back.

But Emily's smiling again. "Except, you know, it's not _all_ boring," she tells him...and looking back into her eyes (which he will never admit to comparing to the sky), Sam kind of agrees.


	3. Dean

**A/N: Thank you to those who have read and reviewed! This chapter is one of my favorites, because Dean. It also contains a little more language, because Dean.**

**Feedback is always appreciated!**

_Dean_

Dean kind of hates himself for it, but he breathes a sigh of something like relief as soon as Sam steps outside.

He can't bear Sam's pity any more than he usually can. Because Dean knows too well, if Sam's forgotten, that this cycle only ends one way—with Dean practically on his knees asking Dad to forgive him. He doesn't know how else to make it right. But Sam doesn't understand, and Sam will be disgusted and disappointed, because Sam is stubborn and self-righteous as hell, and Sam has no idea what it's like to be afraid of being _unwanted_.

And the rational part of him knows that Dad probably sees this no differently than yelling at Sam—he just picks what works and goes with it...shouts Sam into sullen silence, freezes Dean into desperation. But some part of Dean fears that Dad shuts him out because he just doesn't care enough to deal with Dean, that's it's easier sometimes to push him away, and that someday _Dad won't come back. _

He knows, somewhere very deep inside—somewhere that he can usually keep hidden, when he's not smothered by silence—that he can't ever say—do—_be_ enough for his father. John Winchester's a smart man. He'll figure it out eventually. And when he does...

Dean winces, and then curses himself. He's nineteen years old, dammit, and it's seriously screwed up that his father can make him a little kid again, make it so he wants to beg John to shout at him or hit him or _something_, _anything_ rather than just..._leave._

It's his fate, he knows. To be alone, to be left. Dad's been doing it all his life, and someday he may do it for good.

Even Sam. Sam may be scarred—Dean can't save him from _everything_ (_can't bring Mom back_)—but he's not broken. If his current tussles with Dad are anything to go by, one day Sam will get pushed over the edge, and he'll get the hell out of Dodge, and because he might be even more stubborn than Dad, Dean's afraid that nothing will get _him_ to come back.

_Well, honestly, why would he want to come back to you?_

He swears savagely as the knife he's sharpening snicks a small gash into his thumb. Serves him right, working with weapons when his mind's preoccupied. He's slipping. No wonder Dad's pissed.

He tastes bitterness again, thinking of how Dad went off without him—on some hunt that Dean knows nothing about...it could be a quick salt-and-burn or it could be something more serious. It's a jarring addendum to his punishment, Dad going without him. It's been five (six? more?) years since they've hunting together, and Dean had (stupidly) let himself think that they were past the paternal wrath crap.

'Course, maybe he could have done better at keeping his head down. Picking fights with Dad is pretty damn idiotic (it sure made Dean doubt Sam's intelligence sometimes, for all the kid is a brainiac)—but Dean _hates_ when Dad tries to treat Sam like he's still an infant, or worse, like he's some recalcitrant recruit who needs to be forcibly molded into the perfect little soldier.

So he talked back. _There you go_.

He feels a tremor come on, which reminds him (_as if he'd forgotten_) that what he really wants, almost as much as Dad to look at him again, is a cigarette.

If he could go back in time and kick his seventeen-year-old self for starting this habit, he would. But for now, he's stuck with shaking fingers and an ache in his lungs, a gap that can only be filled by inhaling poison and expelling ashes.

_Ashes, always ashes._

He wishes, now, that he hadn't gone cold turkey...that he'd kept a pack (_just one_) for times like these. But he's a Winchester...which means that bad habits are either fiercely kept or decisively broken.

God, he's an idiot on so many levels.

He starts haphazardly organizing their supplies—without a working stove range, it looks like their canned soup will have to be served cold—and he's popped open a probably undeserved beer when the phone rings. It's the Nokia 5110- brand new, but of course Dad didn't pay for it- and it's the one Dad takes with him when he wants to be available.

As in, not at the moment.

Dean picks it up, checks the number.

It's Bobby.

Dean sighs. Try as he may to make it sound like nothing's wrong, Bobby's a pro at figuring him out.

"Hey, Bobby."

"Dean. Your dad around?"

Dean swallows, takes another sip of beer. _Act natural_. "Nah, he just left, actually. Some local case."

"What's he hunting? And why ain't you with him?" Bobby's skepticism is almost palpable.

Dean has exactly nothing when it comes to clever, evasive answers. "Uh—Bobby—" he shifts the phone away from his mouth—"You're kinda breaking up. Crap connection."

Bobby just scoffs, and Dean sighs again. _Like that was gonna work_.

"The hell is going on, boy? Don't you try some sort of high-tech mojo on me, it's not gonna work. Crap connection, my ass."

Dean grimaces, caught. "We're _fine_, Bobby."

"Dean, I will drive to wherever you are and kick your ass if you don't fill me in." There's a pause. "Where are you, anyway?"

Dean bites back a half-smile, the first real one in...well, since whenever he and Dad started going at it. "Oregon."

Bobby harrumphs. "Oregon. Bit of a hike."

"From Ohio? Yeah, I guess so." Dean lets a smirk slip into his tone. "Guess you're gonna have to change your ass-kicking plans."

"Hardly," Bobby snorts. "And I'll be damned if I let a couple thousand miles let some cocky little tween give me the slip."

"Tween?" Dean's insulted, but it's better than being empty. "I'm freaking nineteen, Bobby."

There's an almost imperceptible sigh. "Time flies. Well, what's troublin' you?"

Dean wants to tell him, but he doesn't know how to say it. It's a strange kind of irony that Bobby's the only one who ever asks him, sincerely, what's wrong—and he's too rusty on the whole touchy-feely crap to even know how to answer.

He lets the silence fill the line, but Bobby doesn't scold him again, just says, "You and the old man have a scrap?"

"Maybe a bit."

"'Bout Sam?"

"Mostly."

Bobby sounds tired, but not overly annoyed. "When are you gonna stop taking flak from one 'bout the other?"

Dean half-smiles, a little bitterly. "I dunno. It's the only thing I'm not half-bad at." _That and hunting,_ he adds mentally, but that's too sore a point at the moment, what with Dad leaving him behind and all.

"Idjit," Bobby growls. "Stop being their damn punching bag. What good does it do you, or them? They're both a pair of stubborn jackasses...let 'em go at each other."

Dean knows he can't do that, knows Bobby doesn't really expect him too. "Sammy's only fifteen."

"Yeah, I guess. He's so darn tall."

"You've got that right," Dean agrees wryly. Sam hasn't gotten past him yet, but it's only a matter of time. "Look, Bobby, we're all good. Dad'll come back and it'll be fine. You'll pull something, worryin' like this."

Bobby grumbles at this. "Stop calling me an old codger." He pauses, then continues. "John freezing you out again?"

"Bobby, I _will_ hang up."

"He still ain't talking when he gets back, you call me and I'll come down there and bust his sorry ass."

Dean smiles, almost real this time. "Yeah. You do that."

It's not a cure—it's not Dad, forgiving him—but it's something, and he feels less gutted after he hangs up.

When he glances at the clock a few minutes later, he starts, the familiar twist knotting up his insides. Sam said half-an-hour, tops. Maybe he's just being a rebellious drama queen, as always, or maybe—

Dean slips his gun into the back of his waistband, sets a hand on doorknob. It twists from the outside.

He steps back, startled, and Sam comes inside.

"What the hell, dude? You said thirty minutes!"

Sam shrugs dismissively. "Um...sorry?"

Dean sighs. He doesn't want to pick a fight with Sam, doesn't want _both_ of them pissed off at him—doesn't want Sam shutting him out (though Sam likes the sound of his own voice far too much to think of giving anyone the silent treatment). "Ok, whatever. You're fine. You're fine, right?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Yes, Dean." He stretches out his arms. "See? Unharmed." There's something a little flip, a little shifty about his nonchalance, though, and Dean raises an eyebrow.  
"What's up with you?"

"Nothing." Belying his words, Sam's ears go red.

Dean's mouth falls open. "Dude, you met a girl? Here?"

"Shuddup," Sam mutters, and makes a move to slip past him, out of the conversation. Dean catches him by the arm, spins him around.

"What, is she cursed? Is she a ghost?"

Sam bats his hand away. "No, she's human, OK? She just...she lives nearby. We just talked. And stuff."

"And stuff?" Dean's halfway between annoyed and amused now. "Man, you tryin' to beat my record?"

Sam's whole face is red now. "No! Not like that. We just sat by the pond. It's like five minutes from here. It was fine." He makes a quick, exasperated movement with his hands. "I don't know why I'm telling you this. Just—no. Not your business." He stumps into the bedroom, and Dean trails after him. He doesn't want to pry, but it's kind of his job.

"Sam, you know I'm gonna have to meet her."

"Why?" Sam half-whines, sitting rather gingerly on the edge of one of the dingy bunks. "You always ruin everything...you either freak them out or—" he shoots Dean a baleful glance. "Spring formal, Stapleton, Nebraska."

Dean scrubs a hand through his hair. Sam just won't let that one go, which...OK, it wasn't the classiest move on his part. "Dude, I didn't know she was your date. How the hell was I supposed to know that you'd manage to pick up a senior?"

"She liked _me_, until you came along," Sam growls. "Kind of a buzzkill, standing like a loser by the punch table while you two made out on the dancefloor. Since when do you go to dances anyway?"

"What, like you were gonna take her home?" Dean challenges, even though he knows he's kind of definitely in the wrong. "She was like four years older than you, dude."

"I didn't want to—_eww._ I just wanted to dance with her. She didn't know I was a freshman."

"Oh, come on. You should be thanking me from saving you the embarrassment of her finding out."

Not the best thing to say. Sam lunges at him, and Dean ducks the punch, reflecting briefly on what a great job he's doing at not picking fights. "Man, look, I'm sorry. The whole Stapleton thing is my bad. I swear I will not steal any more of your girls." It's kind of funny, saying that to Sammy, but he grits back the laugh because it wouldn't help things. "I just need to meet her...because, you know. Kind of weird, you meeting somebody first day we're here. Middle of nowhere, all that crap. And Dad's away." It's freaking stupid that it actually hurts to say those words. "You know the rules," he goes on, quickly, so that he doesn't have to dwell on the whole Dad subject. "Just let me check her out. Not like _that_," he adds hastily, as Sam's face darkens. "Paranoid, much? I'm not interested in some fifteen-year-old chick you picked up by a pond. Seriously. What do you think of me?"  
"She's fourteen-and-a-half," Sam corrects him, still moody but somewhat mollified. "Her name's Emily."

"Uh...OK."

"We want to hang out again..." Sam goes on, a little tentatively. Dean's relieved by the hesitation. At least Sam's not full-out fighting back against the rules.

"Yeah, I guessed as much."

"She lives up the road..." Sam starts. "We could maybe stop over..." There's a little bit of hope creeping into his voice, that bit that Dean hates, because he knows that always, _always,_ he ends up having to crush it.

But always, too, he spends a little while pretending that it won't end the same way he knows it will. So he half-smiles and says, "Maybe," and he thinks of how no matter how tall and moody and rebellious Sam gets, he still looks about four years old when he smiles.


	4. Rachael

**A/N: Thanks so much to those who have reviewed and favorited! Currently working on Chapter 12! **

**I guess this story is kind of angsty. ;)**

_Rachael_

Ten grilled cheeses, two-dozen coffees, and fifteen burgers into her shift, she's ready to scream.

_So this is summer_. A crap job at the local (fifteen miles from home) diner, a handful of phone numbers from _middle-aged men_, and an ex-boyfriend whose head she would gladly rip off right about now.

Rachael throws the phone numbers in the trash and wonders if she should invest in some longer skirts. It's not like she has any one to impress, after all, not since—

Her lips tighten into a hard line. Yeah, she kind of knew that Dustin was a bastard all along, but he'd been _hers_. All she had on her own merits, or something stupid and idealistic like that.

Well, hadn't that worked out. Catching him with some no-name bottle-blonde in his truck this morning was clichéd, and exactly the sort of comeuppance she should expect for thinking that he'd be a keeper.

_I guess a taste for cheating, lying losers runs in the family_, she thinks, watching hamburger shrivel and sizzle in the pan—and sure, it smells good, but it's also about a hundred degrees in here and the grease seems to be rising, sticking to her skin. She frowns, because maybe she's being too hard on Mom, but it's not Mom she blames, because Mom was just stupid and trusting...like Rachael _still_ is, after everything...

Her shift's almost up—she started in at noon, and it's half past four now—but she hears another car pull in. It's black, loud music. She half-smiles—she might have thought "hot-shot," a couple hours ago, but then she saw that sleek Chevy round the corner and motor down Main Street...midnight and chrome and a grumbling motor. She'd sort of cocked her head to get a better look...it's old and kind of a show-off car, though she couldn't guess year and date—and she'd hoped (ridiculously) that some James Dean would be driving it.

Instead, there was a grim-jawed man who looked like a felon, with an apparent liking for country music.

_So much for that._ It was idiotically desperate of her anyway, hoping for someone new to look at an hour after everything with Dustin fell apart.

Rachael turns away from the car out front. She's leaving early today.

She speeds on the way home, because it's still light out but the trees on either side of the road are so...thick. Smothering. She knows that Emily has some sort of weird obsession with the woods, that she's kind of freaked out by it—which is totally strange because Emily loves being outside—but Rachael's never thought about it before. _Of course you haven't. It's stupid. Childish._

But the forest looks heavy.

She takes a few deep breaths because she's choking, somehow, and she doesn't—she can't be thinking of Dustin right now, because he's a cheater, and a liar, and she's _so very alone_.

_Focus, dammit. _She keeps her eyes on the road after that, doesn't look at the trees, but she can't help shifting her gaze to see the tire tracks shredding up the grassy remains of the road that leads to the old hunting cabin she found one day, when Dustin convinced her to go for a hike—

_Eyes on the road._

Mom's not home from the lawyer's office where she works—as a secretary, a lower job than she's maybe ever had...hell, Rachael's seen the two framed Master's Degrees on the bedroom wall a million times, at least in the bedroom of their old house, back in D.C...

Rachael slams the car door, and yeah, maybe a little harder than she needs to. She kicks off her shoes next to the front—it's summer, who gives a damn?—and head inside.

"Em?" her voice echoes through the narrow front hall. Eight months of floor polish and dusting haven't taken away the musty smell. "Em, you're here, right?"

Footsteps on the rickety stairs loosen the sudden, involuntary tightness in her chest.

"Yeah! You're home early." Emily grins. No matter how much of a failure at being a big sister she is—and she _is,_ Rachael knows—Emily's always glad to see her. Might be mad at her in ten minutes, but she's always glad to see her.

"Took off early." The words aren't quite spat out, but they're short. She knows—just _knows_—that in ten minutes or less she'll be sobbing out the whole Dustin mess with her head in her younger sister's lap, but for now—for those ten minutes—she'll pretend that she's got it all under control.

Emily shifts from one foot to the other. "What's wrong?" she asks, real soft, and Rachael feels something close up inside, because _Dad used to ask that_, and if there's one thing she hates about her sister (and hates herself more, because it's not Emily's fault) it's that _Emily sounds like Dad sometimes_, and oh, it makes her want cough out the broken glass that seems to have gathered on her tongue and just _fall_, somewhere dark and quiet, where there's nobody to hear her cry.

Maybe she actually starts crying now (_so much for ten minutes_) because Emily's face gets all concerned and Rachael's bending down to hug her (be hugged _by_ her) and before she knows it they've gotten upstairs and they're sitting on Emily's bed. Or at least Emily is—Rachael's just lying there, with her head almost comfortable against Emily's sharp knees, and she's gulping out words that are sobs or sobs that are words (she's not sure which) and somehow this is _still_ about Dad and more about betrayal and most about _leaving_.

Emily just smoothes her hair and says, "It's OK," even though it's not, but she keeps saying it until Rachael can pretend to believe it.

"I hate him," she rasps out, and she doesn't even know who she's talking about anymore.

Emily's hands don't stop moving gently through her hair.

"You're not going to cut it, right?"

Rachael's thrown for a loop. "What?"

"Girls in movies always cut their hair all weird when they break up."

Rachael laughs, but her throat's all scratchy with crying that it comes out a cough. "No. I like my hair. And it has nothing to do with _him_." She pulls a strand forward, over her shoulder, tilts her head to look down at it. Redder than Emily's, almost auburn. Dustin _did_ like it, but that doesn't mean...

"No, I'm not going to cut it," she says decisively. And just like that, she thinks she'll be alright again. Or at least, pretend to be. She's got a handle on this, like she does on everything. She'll keep it locked in tight. She shifts, sits up. "I'll be fine. Thanks, Em."

"Mm-hmm," Emily says. Her voice sounds a little dreamy, like she's thinking about something else. Rachael presses the heels of her hands against her eyes, rubs at the mascara printed on them. "Em, what's going on? What happened today? You look like you're on Cloud Nine."

Emily flushes. "Um...sorry. It's not important."

"What, did you meet a cute guy or something?" Rachael asks, and she's joking, because, _yeah, like that's gonna happen. _

Emily runs a finger along a seam on the bedspread. "Well...actually...I just didn't want to, you know, with everything that just happened to you—"

"Forget about that," Rachael says quickly. She's already kind of regretting letting her guard down. "Just...tell me. What's going on?"

"It was really hot out, so I just thought I'd, you know, go wading. So I, um, I went to the pond and I was just standing there and then there was this—this _guy_, and I fell down in the water but he helped me up and we just...we talked. And stuff."

"And _stuff_? Um, are you—"

Emily turns bright red. "Ugh, Rache. That's disgusting. No. We just talked and he was really kind of nice and he's my age—bit older—and he likes books, too."

Rachael chews on her lip. This is...well, it's not like Emily can't make friends—of course she can, and she _should,_ because half the time Rachael's worried about her anyway, with how shy she is, especially after D.C.—but _this..._

"Is he cute?"

Emily won't look at her. "Geez, I _just_ met him."

"Is. He. Cute?"

"Yes." It's mumbled out. Emily's picking at the bedspread again.

"I see."

"Stop it, Rachael!" Emily stands up, looking kind of annoyed, and Rachael feels a pang at that but she _has_ to ask questions—it's her _job._ "We just hung out and we're going to again, 'cause he's living here for the summer. It's not a big deal."

"I guess not. It's just—Em, I don't want you to screw up your life with a guy. You think it's gonna be great, but it's _not_, it's just a load of crap and—"  
Emily's mouth draws into a hard line. She looks more like Mom than Dad now, but it's barely comforting. "Look, I know _your_ interactions with guys may be crappy, but _I_ just want to be friends with Sam. Not everyone's looking to sleep with someone."

Rachael's mouth falls open. She's not even sure if Emily's completely sure what she's talking about, but it doesn't matter. "Are you calling me a—you know what? Just go. Get out of my room."

Emily looks half-way caught between being mad and being sorry. "Uh, Rachael, this is _my _room."

_Oh. Right_. It's a bit hard to be on her dignity, leaving, but she does her best and stalks out with her best icy glare.

Five minutes later, she's staring at her ceiling, tracing the brown water-stains with her eyes. Her closet still leaks, and hell, wouldn't it just be great if her room started in too.

Her throat is scratchy with more tears, but she's forcing them down, swallowing hard. OK, so maybe she isn't exactly the good girl. But to have her younger sister think—

_'I know _your_ interactions with guys may be crappy...'_

The worst part is, she can't even find an argument with that. It makes sense, too, that children from messed up families always end up screwed over themselves. It's a wonder she doesn't have two kids and a drug habit already, for crying out loud.

_I'm not like _that. It's just—she doesn't know what else to do, with her old friends long gone and remembered only in a couple of faded scrapbooks. She got popular in senior year, here, because she was _that_ girl who got the boys and wore the best clothes and could be nasty when she wanted to be, and she was dating the football captain because that was all she knew how to do (_and he was all she had_).

_And this is how it ends._

She rolls over miserably, presses her face into the creases of her pillow. Emily's right, and Rachael's known all of this all along. She'd just—she'd let herself hope that somehow, Emily wouldn't notice.

Now she has.


	5. Emily: Part the Second

**A/N: Chapter 5! Thanks to those who have reviewed-seriously, it makes me so happy! And thanks to those who are reading. I hope that you are enjoying it!**

_Emily_

Waking up feels wrong, somehow, because even though it's bright out, she feels like something's pressing down on her chest.

It doesn't take her long to remember, that yesterday, Rachael came home early and—Emily hadn't even eaten dinner. Couldn't bring herself to go downstairs, face Mom. Face _Rachael_.

Emily tangles her fingers through her matted hair and stands up, looking blearily into the morning sunlight that's seeping through her window. It's all kinds of wrong, what she said to Rachael. She doesn't always like a lot about herself, but she's never been..._mean_ like that.

And over Sam, too. That hurts, because she really does like Sam. Not like _that_ (_yet_), but...he seems so nice, and interesting. And he doesn't remind her of anything that hurts.

At least, he didn't. Now, next time she sees him, she'll think of what she said to Rachael.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ she chants in her head, but even that's not harsh enough. Stupid isn't as bad as being mean.

She dresses in a t-shirt and jeans—it's not _so_ very hot today, at least not yet—and shuffles downstairs, not exactly boldly. But Rachael's nowhere to be seen. It's Saturday, too. Her day off. Between breaking up and nasty little sisters, she probably won't enjoy it.

Emily eats her Cheerios remorsefully. Her Saturday's going to be pretty sucky now, too, because she hates when she and Rachael are on the outs, and it's all the worse because she keeps replaying her mind the moments yesterday when Rachael's head was in her lap, tears and makeup running down her face.

_Before you ruined it all. She was just trying to look out for you._ After all, Emily doesn't have many people to look out for her anymore, because Dad's gone forever and Mom's here but not here, a shell of who she used to be...Mom can't even look out for herself anymore, so how is she supposed to look out for Emily, really? Rachael's all she has.

And Rachael's the one she hurt.

Emily dumps the soupy remains of her breakfast into the trash and heads out the door. The heat's rising, but the ground is still cool underneath her bare feet. She thinks of heading to the pond again—and she knows it's selfish, and probably pretty foolish, anyway, but she can't help wondering if Sam will be there. If she'll see him again.

"Emily?"

Her heart jumps. _No need to wonder—_

She spins. He's on the path behind her, plaid shirt and jeans like before, floppy bangs and that curious combination of awkwardness and grace.

"Sam?"

"Uh...so, hey," he says, and she thinks she spots a blush creeping up behind his freckles. That's kind of ok, because she can feel one on her face.

"Hi," she says.

"I hope it's not creepy, me showing up." He jams his hands down in his pockets. "I just—I just, uh, I wanted to see you again."

"I don't know if it's creepy," she admits. "I'm not good at knowing about that stuff."

"Me neither. Let's agree it's not creepy, then?"

"Agreed." She knows it's wrong for her to forget so soon, but the heaviness feels like it's lifting off her shoulders, rising with the heat.

"Can I—can I meet your family?" he asks, and she can tell by looking at him that he doesn't really know about that either, if it's the right thing to do.

Not that it matters. "Um, they're not home right now," she informs him. _Oops_. Isn't that the kind of stuff one isn't supposed to disclose? Great, he said he had a father and a brother...they could be serial killers, for all she knows—maybe they were just waiting for a golden opportunity—

_Silly_, she chides herself. Sam's not a serial killer. _Right?_

"Oh, I can come back, if you want," he offers, scuffing his sneaker into the dirt. He did that yesterday, too. Must be when he's nervous.

"That's fine, we can just hang out," she tells him, and before she even knows what she's doing, she holds out her hand and _he takes it_. "Let's go down to the pond."

Somehow in the course of the next fifteen minutes, they manage to push each other in the water—and Sam says she started it, but she swears she was just getting him back for yesterday—and then they're lying on the grass, soaked to the skin and this probably means her sneakers are ruined but she's laughing so hard that she doesn't care. (_She hasn't laughed like this since D.C._)

"We're really stupid," she gasps out, trying (and failing) to catch a breath.

He rolls over on his side, elbow ground in the dirt, head resting on his hand. "Yeah."

"Can you even swim?"

Sam shrugs, flushing again. "I _could_," he returns, a bit ruefully. "I used to be able to. I guess it's been a while."  
This is interesting. "Did you not live near water, or something? No pools?"

He seems to have to think about this, which is weird. "Well—it wasn't that. We just move a lot. Not much time for swimming."

"Oh. Why do you move a lot?" The question's out before she thinks, and she wonders if it was rude.

His face shutters up so quickly she almost misses it. "My dad's job. He's—he's a traveling mechanic." He says the words precisely.

"Cool. Do you like cars?" She hopes that that is a bit more polite.

"Nah, not really." Sam grimaces. "My brother loves 'em though. He's really good with engines and stuff. My dad's probably gonna give him our car eventually and get another one. At least, that's what Dean thinks. He loves our car."

Emily tries to wrap her mind around this. It's unfathomable to her, the whole guy-car fascination. Dad had loved his car—

She nips _that_ off, like she always does. "So, Dean? That's your brother?"

"Yup."

"Like James Dean."

Sam doesn't take this very well. "Not really," he explains. "He's just...I mean, he's OK. Typical older brother."

"I wish I had a brother sometimes."

"Really?"

"I mean, having an older sister is nice, too," she amends quickly, because she doesn't want to feel like she's betraying Rachael (_again_).

"I wouldn't know," Sam tells her. "We don't get to see a lot of girls." He sounds wistful, and Emily feels a little bubble of something like hope and nervousness form inside her.

"I don't get to see a lot of boys," she replies, and she rolls over on her side, too, so that they're facing each other. Sam's hazel-flecked eyes are very close.

The corner of his lips twitches up in a hint of a smile. "Guess it's a good thing we met, then."

"Yeah," she breathes, and thinks that his eyes, are really, really, nice and _close—_

"Sam!"

Sam's eyes go wide and he jerks away, scrambles to his feet faster than Emily would have thought possible.

She stands up too, a little more slowly and shakily.

"You must be Emily," says the new voice, and she faces the speaker—he's taller than Sam, green eyes instead of brown, sharp features, but the same chin and the same denim and plaid. There's only one person he can be.

"You must be Dean," she murmurs. His eyes are grim, and she can't help but feel a little scared of him. Maybe the serial killer theory wasn't so far off.  
"As advertised." He flashes a smile, and he's not even her type (if she _has_ a type) and the smile's not real but there's something about it that makes her go weak at the knees.

"We were just..."

"Yeah, got it." He doesn't let her finish. "Sam, c'mon."

Sam doesn't argue, and Emily understands why. Dean isn't someone to be trifled with, that much is readily apparent. "See you later, Em," he mumbles, with an apologetic look from under his bangs that makes her heart just _melt_.

She stands very still for a while after that, listening to their footsteps crackle off through the brush.

Maybe she won't see him again. She can't bear the thought.

_Seriously? You met him yesterday._

Is she really that lonely?

The thought's depressing, so she stops thinking it (_tries to_).

She starts heading back to the house, but she halts quick, snaps around, looks around and squints towards The Forest.

Nothing. She shakes her head, tugs at her ear.

_Weird._

For a second, she'd thought she'd heard singing.


	6. Sam: Part the Second

**A/N: Thank you to my lovely reviewers. Hope you keep enjoying!**

**Just wanted to note, as the fic moves forward...**

** I understand if some may think that the relationships move too fast...but the way I see it, 1) this kind of is writing itself, I'm just following my muse, and 2) I kind of felt that all the characters were really searching for someone to understand them at this moment...enough that they recognized a mirrored desire in another pretty quickly. So just bear that in mind.**

**That said, constructive crit is always welcome-please review :)**

_Sam_

"For the record, dude, I was right. 'And stuff' did _not_ mean 'just chatting.'"

Sam slumps down into the one of the creaky chairs at the creakier table. "Dean, nothing happened. Seriously! We were just—"

"Staring dreamily into each other's eyes," mocks Dean, who is sitting in the other chair, with his feet propped up on the table in a way that looks careless and cool in a way that Sam can _never _seem to manage. "Believe me, man. Been there, done that, know where it goes."

"Whatever. I don't see why you had to go all Marine DI on us."

Dean stares at him. "Wow. You think _that_ was—man, never join the military. What you call 'Marine DI' was just my gentle, older brotherly protectiveness."

Sam really can't deal with Dean's airquotes right now. "Why are you doing this? It's not like you have some moral code when it comes to girls—"

"Damn straight about that," Dean says. He's still grinning, like this whole embarrass-the-heck-out-of-your-kid-brother thing is freakin' hilarious. It probably is, to Dean. "But I'm also not you, man. You don't get the whole 'no-attachments' rule. You're gonna get the worse case of puppy love ever for this Emily chick and then I'll be stuck with clean-up duty when it's time to go."

Sam feels a burning on his skin that has nothing to do with the heat outside. "So _that's_ what this is about? You don't want to have to pick up my mess? Or more importantly—you don't want Dad to think it's _your_ fault. Not keeping me in line."

Dean's face darkens. "Screw you, Sam." It's said in that quiet, level tone that means he's really, really pissed. Sam groans inwardly. So yeah, he's mad—but it's a low blow dragging Dad into this, especially right now. Plus, there's no reason turning Dean against him. He knows full well that nobody's got his back like Dean.

"I'm sorry," he tries, after a few moments of heavy silence have passed. "I didn't mean—"

"Yeah, whatever." Dean just sounds tired now. "Look, Sammy, I know it sucks. But you get feelings for this girl, it ain't gonna end well. Friends is one thing. Chick flick romance is another."

"It isn't a chick flick romance!" Sam argues, indignant. "We barely know each other."

"Love at first sight," Dean sing-songs—and great, he's not mad anymore, but now he's back to being annoying. "You gonna sit there and tell me you don't like her?"

Sam is silent because yeah, sure, Dean's got him cornered and he's no good at lying.

"That's what I thought." Dean sounds satisfied.

"So what now? Are you going to prohibit me from ever seeing her again, some sort of Capulet-Montague crap?"

"Stop pretending you're an English professor, geek-boy," Dean retorts dryly. "I'm not gonna tie you to the table leg. I just—don't screw yourself over, Sam."

"I know what I'm doing, Dean."

"Yeah." Dean sighs. "That's what I thought."

Silence falls again, but at least Sam feels it's more companionable now. Dean picks at a crack in the table, and Sam knows he shouldn't bring this up but hey, he's part of this family too and sometimes stuff has to get talked about.

"You...uh, you heard from Dad yet?"

Dean stiffens for half a second and then acts like nothing's wrong, flicks his eyebrows up and down. "No."

"Dean..."

"Sam, do not."

Sam clears his throat. "Look, I know whatever happened is between you and Dad, but I'm tired of this keeping it locked-down thing. I know it gets to you, so if you...you know, want to talk?"

Dean smiles but Sam doesn't have to look twice to know it's not real. "'Preciate the thought, Sammy. You should be a guidance counselor. Stuffy office, puke-colored brochures—I think it's a calling, man."

"Dean, I'm serious."

"And I'm _fine_."

Sam bites back his frustration. He only has to look past the cocky smile to see the misery behind Dean's eyes. What hurts more is that it's _always_ there, somehow, for some reason—but right now it's brought forward so that he can't miss it. "He's a real jerk sometime. You were right to stand up to him."

Dean's eyes shift away from him. "Much good it did."

"I don't care how it turned out—it means something to _me_." Dean's always skittish during conversations like these, and Sam doesn't want to scare him off, but he has to say something. "I just—someday I hope you don't feel like you have to go between me and Dad, Dean. Someday I won't ever let him tell me what to do."

He must have said the wrong thing, because Dean's face goes pale. He mutters something like, "That's what I'm afraid of," and then abruptly slides his feet off the table and stands up. "OK, girly moment over, Sammy. Want a beer?"

"I'm fifteen, Dean."

"Dude. Do you have any idea what I was doing at your age?"

Sam grimaces. "Please. No. I don't want to go down _that_ road."

"Your loss." Dean shrugs. "I could give you loads of helpful advice."

"Yes, very helpful, I'm sure," Sam cuts him off. "Is there any soda in that cooler?"

Dean digs around for a few moments. "Nada. Sorry."

"We have enough provisions, right?" Sam asks, shooting the foodstore a questioning glance.

"We're good. Don't worry," Dean says, and Sam knows he's right, no matter where they are, no matter how long Dad's gone, Dean always makes sure they eat. Or makes sure _Sam_ eats. Sometimes Sam wonders how many times Dean's gone hungry for him.

Just another thing his brother will never talk about.

"I'll let you come," he says at last, and it's off-topic, but it's a big deal and he has to say it before he changes his mind.  
Dean pauses mid-sip. "What?"

"If you let me see Emily, you can come. Be a chaperone," Sam adds bravely, even though he grits his teeth at the thought—a chaperone's bad enough, and the thought of Dean as one is even worse.

Dean ruminates on this. "I don't know, man. I'm not overly fond of being the third wheel."

"It wouldn't be like that," Sam pleads. "I just—_please_, Dean," and yes, he's pathetic and he knows it, but the puppy-eyes always work on Dean—always have, probably always will—and sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do.

Dean gnaws his lip. "We'll see," he concedes at last, which basically means 'yes'. "You said she had an older sister?"

"Yes." Sam's instantly wary.

"You see her?"

"No."

"Hmm."

"Dean, don't be _that_ way about _everything_."

"Don't whine, Sam. I have to get something out of this."

"So it's a yes?" Sam jumps up, trying not to look too eager (most likely failing).

"I guess." Dean heaves an exaggerated sigh. "Remember what I said, Sam—don't screw it up."

"I won't." Sam grins. "I got this."


	7. Dean: Part the Second

_Dean_

Dammit, Sam gets to him every time. He knows he should be playing it safe, coming down hard—being as much like Dad as he can, but he also knows (or is starting to) that he can't have both of them. It's one or the other, Dad or Sam—and he's afraid, terribly afraid, that old habits die hard and when the eventual fissure splits open he'll pick Dad...and then regret it forever.

So for now, in the little ways, he gives in to Sam, because he hopes (even if he doesn't believe) that it will make up, somehow, for what he knows is coming.

Sam's happy enough for the moment, after Dean's kind-of assurance that the Emily chick is still greenlighted, and of course Sam's way of showing he's happy is to flop down on his bunk and dive into some ratty paperback, like _that's_ how a fifteen-year-old...hell, a fifteen-year-old with a crush...should be spending a summer afternoon.

Dean doesn't know quite how to deal with the combination of fondness and frustration, guilt and relief that he feels, so he decides not to. "I'm going for a walk, Sammy. Stick around—I'll be back in a bit."

He gets an inarticulate, presumably affirmative grunt from the bunk.

The air is hot, but at this point, Dean doesn't care. He hates nothing more than being holed up somewhere—has no idea how Sam stands it. Reading, no less. Sure, not all books are bad—even _The Lord of the Rings_, with its formidable length, is inexplicably awesome—but Sam devours them like they're freakin' Peanut M&M's.

The road leading to their cabin is grown over with grass, rutted up somewhat by the Impala. Dean doesn't mean to, but he can't help studying the newest tracks, trying to figure out which way Dad went when he left. Of course, _turned left at the main road_ is about as much as he gets from that.

_If you knew where Dad was, wouldn't that kind of defeat the whole purpose of 'teaching you a lesson'? _Dean grinds his teeth. He'd give anything to stop thinking about that, but of course it's dogging his every step. _Like it always does_.

He forces himself to turn his mind to the surroundings—forest so dense it feels like it's closing in around him; shrubs lining the roadside...he spots some low-lying bushes that he recognizes as some variant of blueberries. Too bad they're a month early for any pickings; something edible would be nice to supplement their food supply, which is manageable but not exactly generous. He tries to shove down the edge of hunger that's been sharpening all morning, but blueberries make him think of pie, so it's kind of a lost cause.

He hears footsteps around a bend in the road, the quick rat-a-tat of running. It's second nature to be tense up, but—

She's not exactly a threat.

Sure, he could be asking why she's running in the middle of a summer day, but after taking in her lithe form Dean's not exactly focused on asking questions. Long-legged, tanned, somewhere between a brunette and a redhead—exactly his type.

Sam's not the only one with mystery girl luck, it seems.

She draws up short when she sees him, swiping a hand across her forehead. Her eyes, which are strikingly blue, look wary. "You lost?"

"Nope," he says, racking his brains to come up with a way to work "hot in more ways than one" into a smooth pick-up line—or at least, smooth enough that his looks and charm can make up for the rest. It's not coming to him. Maybe he's not so lucky after all.  
"OK...well, bye." She moves to go past him, but he puts out a hand.

"Really? You can't say goodbye if you haven't said hello."

She rolls her eyes but slows to a walk. "Um, looks like I just did."

"Isn't this the part where you take a breather?"

"What, because you happened to cross my path?" She narrows her eyes. "Let me guess. You're one of those thinks-they're-God's-gift-to-women types?"

He smiles. It's his best one—slow, just sly enough. "Only if you say so."

"Yeah, right. I'm not gonna say that."

He can't resist parrying back. "Um, looks like you just did."

Her mouth falls open with annoyance, but Dean can work with that, because a girl who sticks around long enough to be annoyed is a girl who's probably secretly interested. He cocks his head and lets the smile widen.

"Who the hell are you, anyway?" she asks. Not responding to the charm yet. Dean evaluates his tactics.

"Funny you should ask. You seem like the kind of girl who would know better than to talk to strangers."

"Oh, yes." She flipped her hair off her shoulder and surveyed him coolly. "My mother _did_ teach me not to talk to strange men. She didn't mention anything about strange _boys_, though...apparently we missed an important aspect of the problem."  
That stings a little. She can't be older than him, and it's not like he's doing anything more offensive than harmless flirting. As for being a _boy_, he's tempted to inform her that aside from more pedestrian abilities like picking up women, winning at poker, and holding his liquor, he is also highly skilled in the fine art of ganking any number of supernatural creatures. But explanation always looks desperate, and he knows better than to reveal half of that to a civilian anyway, so he merely lifts his eyebrows and says, "Well, why waste your time?"

She folds her arms. "Oh, I don't know—'cause if I run on ahead, you'll just be checking me out."

He feigns shock. "What? Of course not. Scout's honor."

"That's not the way you do the salute, silly." She shakes her head. "Let me guess. You've never been a scout."

"You caught me." He grins again, although he's pretty much finished with the conversation. She may be gorgeous, but _no one_ belittles Dean Winchester. "No honor, after all."

She doesn't answer, just tosses her head like she doesn't care and runs on ahead.

And yeah, so maybe she looks good when she runs, but he's decided not to care either.


	8. Rachael: Part the Second

**A/N: Thank you all so much for the reviews, favorites, and follows! Sorry for the slight delay with this chapter. More's coming :-)**

**Some language/flirting/themes in this part. Nothing too intense.**

_Rachael_

Hot showers on a hot summer day don't seem to go together, but Rachael sighs almost contentedly as she feels the rivulets of water run down her shoulders. Usually by this time Emily is banging on the door wanting to take her turn—but today it's quiet, just the hiss of water and steam.

She still doesn't know what to say to Emily.

Emily apparently feels the same way...they passed each other once on the stairs, and Emily turned red and looked away. And sure, Rachael's still kind of pissed about what she said, but it's worse to have Emily skittering away like Rachael's radioactive or something.

Emily's a big softy, when it comes down to it, and Rachael knows that she probably feels the worst about the whole ordeal.

_Suck it up and go make it right with her_. She rubs the towel through her hair. It's her job to make sure things run smoothly (smooth enough) in this family, because Mom's barely home and it's just the two of them and dammit, if Emily starts running off and getting into trouble with strange boys named Sam...

Of course, strange boys seems to be a theme this week. Rachael grimaces, recalling this morning's chance meeting. _Jerk_. Exactly the sort of guy she was done done with, forever—cocky and confident and interested only in how she looked and what she could do for them...

It didn't matter that he'd been attractive—sharp features, clear green eyes shot through with hazel, a sarcastic mouth and a lean physique that put Dustin's to shame.

But that's exactly the problem. Dustin. She swears she's done with all of that, with flirting and laughing and what follows, what _ends _with heartbreak (_but that's your own fault, you were stupid enough to have a heart in all of this_)...and she doesn't care if Green-Eyes is a drifting hitchhiker trying to find his way to civilization, or a rich kid spending his summer 'roughing it' (though his jeans were probably too tattered for that)—she wants nothing to do with him and his keen glances and cheeky grin.

_Don't worry. You'll probably never see him again._ Right now, she has more important things to worry about. Namely, Emily.

She twists her wet hair into a loose braid and starts downstairs. It's still hot as blazes out, so she flicks the rickety fan on.

Emily's hunched over at the kitchen table, drawing. Rachael swallows. She can't remember the last time Emily drew—sure, she has a couple dozen child-scrawled pictures tucked in an old shoebox under her bed, but Emily threw away her colored pencils when they left D.C., because Dad had given them to her.

She doesn't mean to interrupt, because if Emily's drawing, that's some secret part of her soul that Rachael shouldn't see. But a board creaks underfoot—_damn this rickety house_—and Emily's head snaps up. Her arms fold protectively over her paper.

"Em..."

Emily doesn't answer. Just stares, down, at her arms.

"Em, listen to me!"

"What? I—I don't wanna talk."

"Well I don't want to_ not _talk." Rachael feels guilty and angry and yes, still a bit hurt, but she can't let this slide. "I'm still pissed, but I—we need to be OK."

Emily reddens. "Uh...yeah. OK."

Smoother than she'd expected, but Rachael still isn't sure where to go from that. "So, Sam," she says, shifting the braid off her shoulder. It leaves a wet spot. "He...um...is he gonna come over or something?"

It's kind of hitting at the heart of the awkward, and she knows this, but she figures that discussing the mysterious Sam in a non-antagonistic way is the best way to show her sister that she's trying to work this out.

And yes, a part of her still feels betrayed, like she should be angry at Emily still, but if she goes too far down that road it ends in her being all alone. She can't have that. Emily just noticed that Rachael was a whore. Big deal. She wouldn't be the first one.

(_It doesn't hurt_).

(_She won't let it_).

"Yeah...he, um, he came over before but you and Mom weren't around so we just hung out by the pond and then his brother made him go home." Emily won't meet her eyes, and the story sounds loopy.

"He has a brother?" _Stay positive._

"Older. It's the two of them and their Dad. They just moved in up the road."

_Guess this place is sucker for misfit families_, Rachael thinks bitterly. Maybe their mom walked out on them.

"Well...uh," she starts aloud, and then struggles to figure out where to go. "I'd like to meet him," she says at last, hoping that it sounds like friendly, sisterly interest and not like prying. Or criticism.

Emily looks back down at her arms, still cover whatever she was drawing. She moves the pencils with her elbow, out of Rachael's line of vision. "That would be OK...but his brother didn't seem too hap—"

There's a knock at the door. Emily's eyes flit to it, and she quickly stuffs her drawings under the table cloth. "Mom's not off from work yet."

"Mom doesn't knock," Rachael points out, and she knows it's probably nothing but she feels her stomach clench up. _Who—_

Emily opens the door before Rachael can stop her. Her face lights up. "Sam—oh, and Dean. Hi." She ducks her head shyly. "You—uh, you want to come in?"

_Speak of the devils, I guess_. Rachael hadn't thought _I'd like to meet Sam_ would turn into _meeting Sam_ in under five minutes, but, well, here they were.

"Hi, Emily," says (presumably) Sam. He's tall and lanky, intelligent eyes under long bangs, and the remains of a babyface.

"We weren't formally introduced, so I guess now is the time for handshaking," says another voice, and—

_Oh. My. God. _

She turns to look at the brother, Dean, and—

He sees her. Opens his mouth and shuts it again. Finally, he murmurs. "_Crap._"

She thinks that's pretty accurate.

"Hi. _You're_ the older brother."

He smiles, but she knows he knows it's awkward. "_You're_ the older sister."

"Yup."

They're talking across the room to each other, but Sam and Emily are totally oblivious. Rachael isn't sure if that makes them the freaks, or the normal ones in this utterly ridiculous situation.

Dean saunters—it's definitely a saunter—towards her, and she becomes acutely aware that her hair is wet and unpresentable and she has no makeup on. Not that she's trying to impress him, or anything—_God, no_—but it would be nice to feel a bit more...powerful.

"So. You know my name, but I don't know yours," he says, and she notices up close that his eyes are almost hazel in this light, and clear and sharp and _guarded_, but it's a well-made wall, an almost invisible one, and she supposes she wouldn't have seen it if _she didn't have one so much like it._

The thought is electrifying and embarrassing. She does not—_will not_—feel a connection to this rebel without a cause, who so clearly thinks that he's _all_ _that_ with his torn jeans and angled cheekbones.

"I'm Rachael. There. Names. We good?"

He leans against the wall beside her like he's always known this house. She finds it annoyingly presumptive (_or maybe it's a defense mechanism—after all, she walked into highschool like she owned the place...terrified inside_). "Why so brusque? So, we had a little...run-in this morning."

"You mean, I was running and you tried to hit on me."

He's surprisingly good at looking innocent, but she doesn't believe him for a moment. "Hitting on you? Is that what you thought?"

"Oh, please." She tosses her hair—or tries to—but it just flops lamely against her back. _So much for that_. "You were so trying to come up with a pick-up line. 'Hot in more ways than one' or something."

He's only silent for a beat, but the tips of his ears redden and she feels a rush of assurance. "_Really_? You were trying for_ that_."

"No." It's a total lie, and they both know it.

"And now you're in my house."

"I am." The cockiness is back. Well, he certainly is resilient, she'll give him that. "But don't get your cute little running shorts in a bunch. I'm just here to chaperone my brother."

"And I'm just here to look out for my sister." She gestures towards the table, where Emily and Sam are in deep conversation. _How do they not find this excruciating?_

"Don't worry," Dean says, and she hadn't known, before, that someone could smirk only with their eyes— "Sam isn't exactly the bad boy of the family."

"Speaking of your family," she returns, refusing to pick up his bait, "I must say, it would be nice to know a little bit about you. We don't have a lot of neighbors. I mean, _some_, of course," she adds hastily (just in case they _are_ criminals or something—and really, what was she thinking, with two unknown guys in the house when Mom's away?). "But this is a bit—_sudden_."

His gaze shifts downwards, away from her, like he's trying to figure out what to say. "Yeah, well, Sammy likes to make friends. We move around a lot." He pauses, then explains. "My dad's job—he's a traveling mechanic."

_Weird._ "Oh. Well, yeah. So—just the three of you?"

His face closes up and she realizes she might have hit a nerve. "Yup." His voice is suddenly rougher—or she thinks it is. Next minute he's got the mask up again.

"It's just me and my Mom and Em," she supplies—probably TMI for this denim-clad-possible-serial-killer-who-is-kind-of-hot...but, she feels compelled to make conversation.

Apparently Dean is also searching for words. "Your dad...he, um, passed?"

"No." It comes out harsher than she means it to, and he flinches, but—she just _can't_ talk about that.

"Sorry, not my business."

"No, it's really not," she tells him, and once more, it comes out cuttingly.

Even the charm's fading from his face now. "Look, do you want us to just go?" he asks, an edge to his tone. "This wasn't my idea. Just trying to humor my kid brother."

She relents, not wanting to admit that she likes his face better when it's softer. "No, it's fine. Apparently _they_ get along fine—" she points towards the table. "We don't have to."

He smiles. Still the edge, the coldness. Heck, maybe she even misses the charm. "Guess we don't."


	9. Emily: Part the Third

_Emily_

"I'd hoped they'd like each other too."

"Yeah." Sam doesn't sound overly concerned, and Emily pokes him the arm, not too hard—they're wading into the pond, and the ground's uncertain at best—but hard enough to catch his attention. "What?"  
"Rachael. And your brother. Didn't he say?"

Sam shook his head. "Uh...he just, he said that he thought she was..." he swallows. Stares down. "Um, cute. Anyway, then I guess he said a couple other things. I wasn't really listening."

Emily is surprised. Sam's pretty good at listening, but more than that—well, she just can't imagine not listening when an older sibling is telling you something. Not that she always _likes_ what Rachael says, but sisters are supposed to hear what the other has to say. And last night, Rachael had had a few things to say about Dean. "Why wouldn't you listen to him?"  
Sam's whole face goes red. "Well, I guess I was too busy thinking about you."

Emily feels her own face get warm. "Really?"

Sam's fingers brush against hers. "I...I..."

"It's OK," she whispers, and she sort of forgets all about Rachael and Dean and whatever went on between them because Sam is so _there_. In the very back of her mind, she feels a bit hypocritical. Last week, she was still grimacing over Todd's awkwardness and dismissing the male species...gender...whatever...as being wholly useless. Now?

_But Sam's so different._

_Hypocrite._ She pulls back just before she takes his hand.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yes?"

"I want to show you something. You want to come back to the house?"

They dry their feet carefully on the mat and Emily darts to the table, reaches under the cloth. They're still there. She'd been half-wondering if Rachael would sneak them out. She'd certainly seen them.

"What's this?" Sam asks. There's a little crease that appears in his forehead when he asks a question and she kind of likes it. (_It can't be just a few days that they've known each other_).

"They're...they're drawings," she says. "I know we were talking about books, and I still had one I didn't finish, it's supposed to be the dragon, Smaug, from the Hobbit..." Her throat seems to close up and she wonders if it's silly to show him. Silly to pick at the old wound like this. Because Dad was the one she used to draw for (_with_), and she'd broken her pencils and torn up all the pictures they drew together and unlike Rachael, that was the only way she'd shown how she felt. She'd been quiet after that. So in a way, maybe this is where her storm is hidden—locked up—and is it _really_ a good idea to bring this up to the boy with the kind eyes, the boy she _barely knows_?

But—

"They're beautiful," Sam breathes, and he's shaking his head in wonder (_wonder_?) and holding them up to the light. "I didn't know you drew."

It doesn't even occur to her to say _Well, we just met like three days ago,_ because that doesn't matter—she knows that Sam hates hotdogs and wishes he could play piano and is terrible at ice skating and once managed to sneak into a testing room and take the SAT's, just to see how he would do (1560out of 1600), just like he knows that she had two cats when she was little, named Dee-Dee and Molly, and she sucks at ballet even though she loves it and she thinks 'boyfriend' is a stupid word.

So Sam says, "I didn't knew you drew" and it hurts her because it reminds her of how much she _hasn't _told him, hasn't told anyone who didn't already know, how there's a giant gaping hole in her heart that she's still too mad to try to fill (_and too afraid to try, because she doesn't think she can_).

She licks her lips and tries to think up an answer. If it was anybody else she'd prob'ly say, _'Oh, you know, it's just baby stuff_' but Sam doesn't think it is and neither does she so that won't work.

"I used to do it with my Dad," is what comes out next, and then her hand flies up over her mouth because she'd meant to say _anything_ but that.

And she's only known Sam for a few days, but this is why she knows he's different, because he doesn't even ask, just slips the drawing back under the tablecloth and says, "C'mon, let's go back outside," and they go and it's only when they've reached the pond that she realizes he's been holding her hand the whole time.

"Ever explored those woods?" Sam asks, a few minutes later, and Emily feels the usual cold chill climb up the ladder of her spine.

"No," she says, and it comes out a little breathless.

His brow creases. "Do they...um, they scare you?"

"Well—" She wants to say, '_Of course not. I'm not five,'_ but the truth is, well, they really _do_.

He pushes his bangs out of his eyes. "'S'Ok. I was just wondering."

"I—" she starts to come up with something cool, but then she stops. Goosebumps prickle along her arms. "Sam, you hear that?"

_The singing._

He's on his feet in an instant, stiff but not stiff—_ready_ is the right word, she thinks. His face is pale but strangely calm, locked into a stern expression that he seems too comfortable with. "You mean _that_?"

He can't point or gesture, maybe can't even describe the eerie thread of a melody wafting towards them, coiling around Emily's ankles and wrists, _pulling_.

She jerks back and Sam stares at her. "Emily, have you heard this before?"

She falters. "I—uh, I heard it the other day but I was imagining things. It's just singing." She chokes. "Why am I—why is it scary?"

He doesn't answer. "Emily, I think we should go back to the house," he says. Jaw, set. Eyes, hard. He doesn't look fifteen anymore. Had she really ever thought he had a babyface?

They don't quite run, but they're not wasting time. Sam pauses by the doorway. He's all awkward and shy and sweet again, or is trying to be—but she knows it's an act. "Hey, just...keep out of the woods, OK? It's probably nothing but it's definitely creepy."

She doesn't care if it's nothing. She's not going in those woods. "OK. Sam, what's going on?"

His smile is tight at the corners, dimples less pronounced. "Uh—nothing. It's nothing. I gotta go."

"Sam—"

"I'll be back. Stay out of the woods!"

He sprints off down the path before she can say anything more. When he's gone, she closes the door.

And locks it, without knowing why.


	10. Sam: Part the Third

**A/N: Thanks for the continued support, guys! The reviews make me very happy =)**

_Sam_

"Dean!"

Dean's hunched over the kitchen table, reading. His head jerks up when Sam bursts in the door. "Dude, what the hell? I didn't even know you were out. Thought you were reading _Robinson Crusoe _like the freak geek you are or somethin'."

Usually, Sam would half-heartedly apologize—he knows it really gets to Dean when he goes out without letting him know (_if Dean doesn't know where he is, he can't look out for him_) but Sam had kind of wanted to see Emily without a repeat of the chaperone situation.

Which—_Right. Emily._

"Dean, there's something out there."

Dean's on his feet in an instant, gun in hand. "What? Sammy, you hurt?"

Sam shakes his head. "I'm fine. But—Emily and I—" he flushes— "We heard singing. In the woods."

Dean snaps out of kill-mode and sits back down, lifting an eyebrow. "Singing? Dude, this is freakin' Oregon. There's hippies, like, _everywhere_. Which, hey, I used to care about that—free love and crap-before I found out that pretty much _none_ of the girls are—"  
"Dean!"

"Sorry. You were saying. Singing. Sam, I kind of doubt some dipsticks holding a forest serenade is worth our while—"

Sometimes, Sam just wants to punch him. "It wasn't _like_ that_,_" he explains, holding onto his patience by a thread. "It was—Dean, there was something wrong. It was...it wasn't natural. This voice—" he shudders, trying to bring it to mind. It's not a pleasant memory, brief though it is.

The teasing look slips off of Dean's face. "Talk to me."

"It was thin and high. Something female. But it just—it made me feel _cold_." He doesn't know what else to say. "I told Emily to stay in the house, out of the woods. But I just—Dean, if there's something here, we have to—"

"Hold your horses," Dean growls. "We do this right." He fans what he's been reading out on the table. It's a newspaper.

"There's been a rash of missing persons cases north of here. Sixty miles or so away, mostly, but last one was thirty."

"So?"

"Nothing about singing, but they are in wooded areas, from what I can tell."

"Wait..." Sam sits down, takes a breath. He knows he needs to calm down, _think_. Creepy singing isn't enough to go out guns blazing. "So you just have some data right away?"

Dean stares at the paper, suddenly fascinated by a rug advertisement.

"Is this about Dad?"

"Shut up, Sam. I just thought it would be...good to know. What he might be after."

Sam decides to shift the topic back to where he needs it, both for his sake and for Dean's. "So—you think whatever Dad's hunting for right now...it might have come here?"

"Maybe." Dean picks up a half-empty beer bottle off the floor, takes a swig, sets it down on the table. "It's worth checking into." He shrugs. "No disappearances here, so that's good."  
_Yet,_ Sam thinks. _No disappearances yet._

"Did you see a library around on our way in?"

Sam starts at the question, shakes his head. "But—uh, I could ask Emily."

"You think you can do without her being suspicious?"

Sam nods. "Yeah. But Dean...she heard it too. And she'd heard it before. I think...I think it affected her more."

Dean purses his lips. "Meaning?"

Sam presses his fingernails into his palms until it hurts. "It was like she was being pulled."

"Weird."

Sam runs his fingers through his hair. "I—I can't let anything happen to her."

"We won't, Romeo." Dean stands up, paces the length of the tiny kitchen, scratches his chin. "We need to get on this, though."

"Yeah."

"Someone needs to keep on eye on your girlfriend and her family. Someone needs to find a damn library and research."

"We can split up..." Sam suggests, but he knows it's futile.

"No way in hell," Dean says flatly. "Sammy, if there's something out there, I am not letting you out of my sight."

"We could call Dad—" Sam doesn't want to say it but he figures he kind of has to. It's the go-to solution.

Dean's jaw tightens. "Dad only took his emergency phone, Sam. I doubt he'll pick up. And I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to talk to me."

"But if it's an emergency—"

"Just drop it, Sam. I'll call Bobby if I have to." Dean sits down, taps his fingers against the cracked tabletop. "Whatever it is, it's unlikely to attack during the day. These missing persons cases seem to have occurred at night. Means we've got right now to do research."

"I mean, it could be nothing." Sam's confidence is slipping, just a bit. He doesn't want to jump to conclusions.

"Maybe. Maybe it's hippies. In which case we'll have a trip to library and some extra time with your girlfriend. Wow, man, that sucks for you."

Sam smiles in spite of himself. "Well, her sister's pretty, at least." He remembers Emily said something about Rachael not liking Dean and feels a bit guilty. He should have listened to his brother's side. Then again, Dean probably didn't say much.

Right now, he just rolls his eyes. "Pretty? Sure, she's not bad to look at, but she's kind of bitchy."

Sam holds his hands up in defeat. "OK, OK. Just trying to sweeten the deal for you."

"Just because you luck out with the chicks this once is no reason to pity me," Dean tells him, glaring. "I will so make it up later. Just remember the Stapleton dance."

"Jerk," Sam says, but Dean's too preoccupied to give his standard reply, finger skimming down the rows of the paper again.

_It's probably nothing. It's probably nothing._

He's afraid it's something.


	11. Dean: Part the Third

**A/N: Thanks for continued support! Currently writing Chapter 14 of 20 =)**

_Dean_

Turns out, there is a library in Nowheresville, Oregon. Of course, this means Sam is freaking thrilled, but Dean's bored out of his skull. The only good thing about libraries is (occasionally) librarians, but this one is old enough to be his grandmother so...no dice. Dean sighs, breathes in the smell of old carpet and older books. It's a soporific smell—which means _causing sleepiness_, not that Dean will admit under torture that he knows what the word means, or even that it exists, especially to Sam.

Then again, not that Sam is concerned with him at the moment. He's flipping through every local history book he can find, lower lip tucked between his teeth.

Dean rifles through some newspapers. "Dude, you find anything?"

Sam cards a hand through his unruly hair, frustrated. "No." He slumps down against a shelf. "Man, you think maybe a Wendigo..."

"A Wendigo with a longtime dream of going opera? Hardly. They'd don't sing." Dean runs a finger down the Police Blotter. "This is the eighth report I've looked through. No missing persons cases, far as I can tell."

"Yeah, well, you said they were farther north."

"True. Good sign, I guess. Nobody's gotten hurt here." Dean rubs the back of his neck. "What are you lookin' into?"

"Local history...murders, that sort of thing. Nothing particularly unsettling."

In the back of his mind, Dean reflects that it's probably more than a little screwy that his fifteen-year-old brother is trying to ferret out details on grisly murders, but he dismisses the thought. It's bigger than he can handle—always has been. He does as much as he can for Sam. Keeps gambling, hoping it's close to enough, even though he knows it's steering closer and closer to a lost cause.

"Maybe it's a monster," he suggests. "Not necessarily a ghost."

"I thought you just said, not a Wendigo."

"Wendigos aren't the only things in the woods."

"Just...I'm not sure where to start looking for that," Sam says, and he sounds more flustered than usual. Dean frowns. This isn't like Sam, who is generally so completely on top of the whole book-and-research crap.

"Man, what's going on?"

Sam's mouth tightens at the corners, a sure sign that he's upset. "I—I'm worried about her, Dean."

"Your girlfriend?"

Sam blows out his breath. "She's not my girlfriend. But yes, Emily. She...if there's something out there, we can't let it get to her."

"We won't." Dean considers laying a comforting hand on his shoulder, but hey, this isn't at that level of peptalk yet and touchy-feely stuff always just seems to make Sam _more_ emo and girly. He doesn't need to be caught hugging his little brother in the library, of all freaking places.

Still, Sam looks worried.

Dean runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth, thinking. "Dude, let's check out a coupla books, head back. Then you can go check on your girl. OK?"

The tense line of Sam's shoulders relaxes just slightly. "OK." He turns to go, then stops. "Hey, look! Perfect!"

"What?" Dean cranes his head to look. _Myths and Legends of the Alsea Native American Tribe._ "Nicely done, Sammy. Could be useful."

He shoves Sam out of the aisle, and hope that counts for comforting.


	12. Rachael: Part the Third

**A/N: This one is nice and long—and actually, one of my favorites so far. It was fun to write.**

**Language, some themes. Nothing to break the T rating.**

**Enjoy, and please review? Please? =)**

_Rachael_

The phone's ringing.

Again.

Rachael buries her head under her pillow because _dammit, _ she just knows it's Dustin. He's been trying for hours, and she told Emily not to pick up—and she sure as hell is isn't going to—

But then the ringing stops, cut-off, and she hears, "Hello?"

_Dammit. Dammit. _Mom's home. She springs out of bed, but it's _so_ too late. She hears Mom's footsteps mounting the stairs, heavier than they used to be.

Her door opens. Mom's face, lined and tired and vacant like it always is, like it has been since the day Dad left. Rachael feels the anger and shame over Dustin gather in her stomach, congeal with whatever the hell that's still burning because of Dad.

Mom holds out the phone. "It's your boyfriend."

Mom doesn't know, of course, because Rachael didn't tell her. Because Rachael doesn't really tell her much at all, anymore. Can't. Won't. _Does it matter?_

She takes the phone since she kind of has to and presses it to her ear even though she supposes she could just hang up.

"Hello?"

"Rache..."

And there it is, acid in her throat which doesn't hurt as much as the tears in her eyes. "You _bastard_," she hisses into the phone, quietly, until she hears Mom's steps descending. "You dirty, low-down—"  
"Come on, babe. I made a mistake. We can—"

She does _not _want to hear it—hear the _pleases_ and _let me explains_ and the _sorrys_. They're the worst of all. "Don't ever call me again." The words are flat, and she herself is surprised that they're unpunctuated by curses. They just—don't seem to need embellishment. She hears him take a breath, start to say something—

She hangs up.

She turns the chunky wireless phone over in her hand, considering the tempting possibility of smashing it. But it's not her phone, it's Mom's, and funds are tight. Funds are tight. That's the thought that's kept Rachael from doing a lot of crap, lately.

She sets the phone very deliberately down on her nightstand, presses her temples with her fingertips. Up close, she can see the blurred outlines of her chipped nailpolish. Just another imperfection in her appearance when Dean stopped over yesterday.

_Dean._ Why the hell is she thinking about him again? Maybe it's because he and Dustin are so cut from the same cloth, cocky bastards who see everything about her, and so see nothing.

A flash of movement outside her window catches her attention, and she stiffens. Emily's in her room; Mom's downstairs. Someone's out there.

_Oh, God. It's probably Dustin._ Rage flares up in her, hot in her chest. _Screw him. _She slips her sneakers on, grabs the pepperspray out of her desk drawer and slips it in her pocket (so what? She's paranoid—and it might not be Dustin).

She heads downstairs, glances towards the kitchen, just in case Mom asks questions. But Mom has no questions, of course (not now, not ever)—she's just sitting at the table, hands flattened out against the wood. Reaching for something that isn't there. Eyes staring off, looking for someone who never will be. There's a glass of something amber beside her, and Rachael doesn't look at it twice because she doesn't want to think about it even once.

She goes outside.

In D.C., there was gravel on their front walk. Awfully hard to walk on, and Rachael knew this because she'd snuck out a couple of times (_when sneaking out to visit her friends was dangerous, when Mom _and_ Dad joined together in their scolding_). Here, it's just dirt. Her sneakers whisper across it.

The figure glides into sight again—apparently it's mastered the art soundless movement as well (and she thinks _it_ now, because it clearly isn't Dustin—too lean, stealthy, graceful). Rachael reaches for her pepperspray. This whole badass recon mission in the backyard seems like a really bad idea now.

But her eyes are adjusting to the darkness, and the figure turns—

"_Dean?_"

He snaps towards her, alert. Ready. _Dangerous_, she thinks, look at the practiced skill of his stance, his attitude. _Definitely dangerous_. Cold fingertips seem to dance along her spine.

"Rachael," he says, and snaps out of what she thinks is some sort of fighting position. He's all easy nonchalance in a moment, but she doesn't believe it. Her fingers close around her pepperspray.

"What the hell are you doing in my yard?" It's kind of a rhetorical. He's a _guy_. Definitely a testosterone-filled guy. She's probably the only chance at entertainment he has. _Yeah, right. I got a can of pepperspray answering that one._

"It's not what it looks like," he says softly, reassuringly.

"So we both know what it looks like."

He waits a beat. "Yes. I guess we do."

"I have pepperspray," she volunteers.

It has the desired effect. He stiffens, wary. "Look, no need. Just—let me explain."

Pretty much one of the lines she hadn't wanted to hear from Dustin. She sure as hell doesn't want to hear it from this self-satisfied stranger.

"You've made it pretty clear I don't have a snowball's chance with you," he goes on, quickly, levelly. She has the feeling that, pepperspray or no, she's far from the most intimidating adversary he's faced. She's not sure what to make of that. So she just growls out, "Keep talking," like _that's_ intimidating.

"My brother and I—we're..." He seems to be choosing his words carefully. "We're concerned that your family may be in danger."  
"OK, dramatic." She rolls her eyes. He's decided to lie, but she's kind of interested to see where this goes. "Well? Keep talking." She winces inwardly, realizing that she just said that, like three seconds ago.

"I may not have been completely upfront about what my Dad did," Dean elaborates. "He...he is a mechanic, but he's also—he's kind of a private detective. And he's trailing a—a criminal at the moment. We think they may have come here."

_Yeah right._

"We think they're in the woods."

The fingers wrap right around her spine. And for some (probably really stupid reason) Rachael _believes_ him. Or something. Those woods—she feels their thickness, pressing in on her, and sure, it's probably irrational, but—

"So why does that bring you to my house?"

"Sam and I are staking it out," he says, like it's the most natural thing possible.

"Uh...you think you're a match for a criminal?"

His smile gleams quickly in the darkness, and something else gleams too, in his hand. She jumps back, startled. It's a gun.

"Don't worry." He's serious once more, curiously compelling. "I know what I'm doing."

"Why should I trust you?" she asks. But the truth is, she doesn't like him (_doesn't matter that he's goodlooking_), yet she is starting to believe him.

He shrugs. "My roguish good looks." He winks, and she wonders if he's a mind-reader—also, if blushes are visible in the dark. _Bastard_.

"Well, I'm sure we're fine," she says, a bit coldly. "You and Sam can go home."

Dean shakes his head firmly, and she knows right then that he'll brook no argument. "Sorry. We won't trouble you, but we're not leaving." He runs a hand through his hair wearily. "I promised Sam. He's—he's kind of got a massive crush on your sister."

_It's definitely reciprocated,_ Rachael thinks, but she's more focused on getting him to leave. "You should go," she repeats.

He's not budging. "Can't let anything happen to you."

"Me?" It is possibly the most ridiculous thing that's happened to her in a week of ridiculous things, but she feels an inexplicable flutter inside.

"What can I say? I'm a sucker for a pretty girl," he deadpans, and even in the dark she can see his exasperating smile.

"You _jerk_," she says, not really angry. He's too interesting for her to be angry at very long. "Well, if you're going to sit out here like a freakin' lunatic, so am I."

"Scandalous," he observes, doing something obscene with his eyebrows. Before she can punch him for that, he's all grave again. Switches too fast for her to follow. "You sure? I doubt anything will happen, but what about your Mom?"

"She's spending the evening with her good friend Jack Daniels," Rachael snarks, and then inhales sharply. She hadn't meant—that sarcasm is a bitterness she keeps locked inside, away from the light. Away from the judgment. And here she is, revealing it to some leather-jacketed drifter with a goddamn _gun_.

To her even greater surprise, his eyes flicker through the darkness with something like understanding. "Parents, right?"

She wonders how much time traveling detective mechanic work leaves for fathering. Probably less time than it leaves for Jack Daniels. "Yeah."

He sits down, and she follows, keeping a careful distance. "I still have pepperspray," she warns, because she's starting to feel a little too comfortable and _someone _needs reminding.

"You wound me," he retorts, hand to heart, and she wonders if it would be more satisfying to slap him or kiss him.

_Rachael. Seriously?_

"So, are you in college?" she asks, because _something_ has to be said. _(Making pleasant conversation with a lunatic. Great idea_).

He shakes his head, and for a second she wonders if she's underestimated his age, if he's still in high-school, if he's _younger_ than her. That would be—she doesn't know why that bothers her so much, but it does.

"Not exactly very school smart." He flicks some dirt of the knee of his worn jeans. "You?"

"Not sure yet. I just graduated."

"Diploma and everything." The words are infused with some sort of condescending amusement, annoying but still interesting. She wonders why he looks down on that.

"Don't you have one?"

"Nope. Drop-out."

_Wow. _She thinks that makes him kind of a loser but she's sort of hesitant to pass judgment. There's more to him than is at first apparent. "So what, you'll get your GED?"

Another shrug. He's an expert at making them look careless. "When I need it."

"When you need it? How old are you?"

She can see his eyes glint with mischief even through the dark. "Legal, if that's what you're asking."

She glares at him. "That's not what I'm asking."

"Nineteen."

"Oh." She feels satisfied, that he's older. Irrational, but whatever. She's not exactly being a poster-girl for reasoning tonight.

A silence falls between them for a few moments. She looks over at Dean, sees how his profile is outlined in the darkness, sharp-cut and oh-so-tense. He's listening. Aware. She doesn't think she's ever met someone so _there_.

"Who is out there? Do you have a name for them?"

He shakes his head. "Look...it's hard to explain. I think we're probably safe for tonight."

"How do you know?" She's frustrated by how much she trusts him, but she can't help it.

"Hard to explain."

Trust or not, it's annoying when he's this taciturn. She prefers the charm over the grim terseness.

"It's cold out," she says, to start the conversation up again. Then she stifles a groan, knowing what he'll do with that.

Sure as clockwork, his smile turns devilish. "Got a couple ways to fix that."

"Ugh, shut up." Emily'd be proud of her, being demure like this. It's just—Dustin's memory is still raw in her mind, and the bitterness comes with the thought that she hasn't lost anything. What they had was nothing at all. She can't do it all again, can't even pretend that she wants to. "I bet you just talk like that 'cause you're piss-poor at _really_ talking to girls," she tells him flatly.

She wonders if he's blushing. It's too dark to tell.

A few seconds pass, and she realizes he really doesn't have a comeback to that. She giggles.

"Shut the hell up," he growls.

"You're so much nicer when you're not trying to proposition me, you know?"

"You're so much prettier when you shut your mouth, you know?"  
"Jerk."

"Bitc—" he starts to retort, and then stops. "Sorry."  
She's kind of shocked, but not as easily offended as he thinks. "Did you just—"

He presses a hand over his face. "It's what I call my brother. Sorry."

"You call your little brother that?"

"He's kind of a whiny little dude sometimes."

She laughs. "You'd die for him, wouldn't you?"  
"Yeah."

He answers like it's not even a hard question, and she feels something still inside her. She's definitely never met anyone like this before.

A sudden impulse—and hey, if she was drunk she'd chalk it up to that, but she's not, which maybe makes it dumber or better or something—rises in her mind, and she says, "You. Me. Twenty Questions."

"I was hoping you'd say Twenty Minutes in Heaven."

"Have you forgotten that I have pepperspray?"

"I'd settle for the traditional seven."

She raises the can.

"OK, OK. Twenty Questions." He digests this. "Why the hell—that's like some crappy slumber party game, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is," she admits. "But...look. My life sucks. I kind of get the feeling yours does too. Something's out there stalking us, if I trust your word, which I probably shouldn't. I guess—look, this is stupid. You could probably be a serial killer."

"Too hot for that," he murmurs, but she ignores him and continues—"I want to be really open and ridiculous and spill my guts to someone. Either you and your brother and your Dad—wherever the hell he is—catch the sonuvabitch in our woods, or said sonuvabitch comes and kills us all. Either way, we never talk about this again."

He looks interested, and less and less like a serial killer every moment, which she guesses is kind of comforting. Of course, he's also looking more and more attractive every moment, which she knows is kind of unsettling. "Deal," he says. "You sure you want to hear about my life?"

"Does it suck?"

"Sometimes."  
"Then we're even. Maybe." She's not sure how much his life sucks. Maybe a lot. He certainly has a wall up in his eyes sometimes that suggests it could.

The wall's down right now, she thinks. (_So is hers_).

He props his elbows on his knees. "You first?"

"First kiss?" _Crap, why'd I pick that?_

His eyes sparkle mischievously in the low light. "So you _are_ interested. Uh...1991, I guess. School parking lot."

"Romantic," she jibes. "And I'm not interested. It's just a routine question."

He winks. "_Very_ routine, I'm sure. OK, my ?"

"Eighth grade dance." She shifts uncomfortably at the memory; it's not a pleasant one. "Next question. Pets?"

"Never."

"Why not?"

A shrug. "Motels don't let 'em in. And my Dad would flip his—well, you know. If we had a dog in the car or something." He cracks his knuckles. "Not that I like dogs, for the record."

"Motels?" she asks. Sounds sucky for sure.

"Hey," he chides. "It's my question."

"Go ahead." She bites back on her curiousity.

"Oregon? You don't seem like you're from here."

_Ah. There it is_. She sways in the balance for a moment, then decides to go for it. "We moved here eight months ago." She doesn't wait for his _why,_ doesn't care if it was even coming. "My dad walked out on us for his bitch of a secretary." She means it to come out detached and sort of amused, like an adult looking back on someone else's folly. It comes out kind of broken.

He doesn't answer that for a long moment. But his hand flits out and sort of lifts a lock of her hair back from her face, lightly and swiftly. He's nineteen and undeniably attractive, charming and suave and clearly experienced in the ways of the world. But something about the way he just barely touches her is soft and sweet and innocent and _comforting._

She takes a breath, doesn't let her voice shake. "What about your mom?" And maybe that's not fair, because she knows there's something dark there, and his question wasn't about her dad until she made it so, but she wants to know.

"Dead." The word falls from his lips heavily, and something in his tone makes her feel that he hasn't quite gotten used to the idea yet. She wonders if it was recent, then, but he follows it up with, "Fourteen-and-a-half years ago," and she realizes she can't imagine what it's like to carry that for so long.

"My turn," he continues, after a rather lengthy pause. His voice is a little thick, but she doesn't say anything about it. "Music?"

"Um...'N Sync, I guess?"

He chokes. "Are you freaking kidding me?"

She pulls her hair forward, over her face. She shouldn't have to be embarrassed over this. "What?"

"Haven't you ever heard _real_ music?"

"Like...?" she prompts. He's got the heartthrob leather jacket look, but he's too layered to wholly fit that mold. She really can't pinpoint him for a genre.

"Hell, I don't know," he says dryly. "Maybe like, _Metallica..._or AC/DC, or Zeppelin. _Please_ tell me you've heard of Zeppelin."

"I...I think so?" she squeaks, and he just sighs.

"Wow. And here you were acting like one of the cool kids."

"You think I'm cool?" They're sitting out on damp grass, practically strangers, and apparently waiting for a killer to arrive, but she's smiling.

"I try to give you a compliment, you threaten me with pepperspray. I tell you you're a disappointment and you're pleased as punch? Tell me how that pans out in the female brain, exactly?"

"You are such a—" She tries, and fails, to find the right word. She just sort of sits there and gapes. His eyes are _so_ green, even in the darkness. And—OK, she must be _really_ tired.

"You were saying?" he queries, cocky as hell, and she wants to tell him to _stow the charm, it's so not working,_ but it _is._

Footsteps round the house, breaking the moment, and Dean is on his feet with the agility of a cat, gun in hand.

But it's just Sam.

"God, Sammy, give me the signal."

"Sorry," Sam says. He's got a gun too, _what the hell_, and Rachael feels the hysteria of how _weird_ this all is creep over her again. "I was just—hanging out with Emily. But it's kind of late, so I didn't want to stick around and be a nuisance."

Rachael glances at her watch. It's almost eleven o'clock.

"I...I guess I should go in," she says. She's been out all night a hundred times, but she doesn't think that she can look into Dean's eyes much longer and not make an idiot out of herself.

"It's your question, I think," Dean tells her, in an undertone, putting away his gun. "Raincheck?"

She can't meet his eyes. "Yeah."

"Goodnight, Rachael. Don't worry about us."

Sam waves, a bit shy.

She leaves them sitting on the lawn, shadowed by the trees. Almost invisible, but she sees the glint of Dean's gun on his knee. This is weird, and probably wrong—but she feels safe.

Just before she shuts the door, their voices float towards her.

"Did you kiss her?"

"Shut up."

She strains her ears, but their murmurs are similar—she doesn't know who said what.


	13. Emily: Part the Fourth

_Emily_

She wakes into warmth and light. There's sunlight dappling her bedspread, and the air feels cleaner, somehow, less hot.

She slides out of bed, stepping into a patch of sun on the floorboards. It's a beautiful day, but something feels—_off._

_Last night. That's what it is._

Sam had come back, all fidgety, like there was something wrong. He wouldn't talk about it though, just sat at the table and chatted with her. And Mom, actually. Mom (at least the post-everything version of Mom) didn't usually talk to Emily's friends (not that there were many to be talked to) but Sam had managed to get a smile out of her.

When Mom went upstairs, Emily had watched Sam's leg jitter up and down, faced his attempt at a reassuring smile with a hard stare. "Sam, _what's going on?"_

"What do you mean?"

"The creepy singing...you telling me to stay in the house...you ran off, and I didn't know what to do. Is there—is there something out there?"

His smile hadn't convinced his eyes. "Uh...listen, it's kind of hard to explain."

"Then explain it." She could be stubborn when she wanted to.

"You just need to trust me," he said, and it seemed he could be stubborn too. She kind of liked it, despite everything.

He had glanced at the clock. "I—it's late. I've got to go. Em, it's gonna be OK. I promise."

But it wasn't—it wasn't OK, and he knew it and she knew he knew it. She had opened her mouth to say something but he had pressed his fingers very gently against her lips and then run out the door again. Apparently he did that a lot.

_I hope he's OK._ Emily runs a finger over her lips. She's fine—she was _here_, and there was no singing, no nothing, just sunlight—but Sam hasn't come back.

A sense of urgency, veined through with fear, rises in her. She _has_ to find Sam, has to help Sam—nothing else really matters.

Emily dresses fast, pounds downstairs and grabs a handful of cereal out of a half-empty box, stuffing into her mouth. _Sam, Sam, Sam._ It's like a rhythm; in her head, in her heart. She's not sure which.

She kicks her sneakers on and runs out onto the path, the backs of them flapping against the packed dirt. It's cooler today, and the air doesn't stuff up her lungs like it has for the past week.

The driveway's empty. Mom must have gone to work again. She does that sometimes, extra hours on Sundays, to fill the gap that used to be bursting with church and picnics and family time. Sometimes Emily thinks about all that. Sometimes she doesn't. Because Dad left, which means that there were fissures of _wrong_ and _messed-up_ stretching back long before they found the letter on the table.

Emily runs past the driveway. When she walked by Rachael's room, Rachael was still there.

_Probably should have left her a note._

It's too late for that now, though; she has to get to Sam and so she runs along the road until she can't anymore, stops and presses her hands against her ribs, breath sawing in and out of her lungs. She isn't used to running; it makes her darn asthma kick up.

She hadn't thought the path to the hunting cabin was so far...but she has to keep going. _She has to get to Sam._

The sun is bright on the back of her head; not stifling but still too warm to be refreshing, to let her cool down. The woods on either side look cool. Dark. Inviting.

She recoils at the thought—isn't the forest exactly why she's running towards Sam? Isn't the forest what started all this?

_Isn't she afraid of the woods?_

Before she can answer her own question, she hears it again.

Last time, she'd thought it was like tendrils, entwining and trapping and pulling. But it isn't so this time. This time it's a wave, a gentle ripple that surrounds and sloughs away her fear, trickling down her parched and anxious throat.

It flows over her, softly, gently, until it _pulls_.

_There's always an undertow_, she thinks, strangely careless (not even caring that she _is _careless), and follows the voice.

Off the path.

Out of the sunlight.

Into the woods.

**A/N: A little cliffhanger for you all. ;)**


	14. Sam: Part the Fourth

**A/N: Hey everybody, this is the last of the my pre-written chapters so updates may be a bit slower (only six chapters left to go though). I'm planning on working on the next one today, so no worries! Enjoy this :-)**

**And happy birthday (belated) to my loyal reviewer squidgy78. Hope you enjoy this!**

_Sam_

They'd stayed on the lawn all night. Sam almost hadn't expected Dean to be game for it, but then he was, and Sam berated himself for doubting. Dean could be—and was—a jerk sometimes, but he was as loyal as...well, Sam wasn't sure what he was as loyal as. More than anyone in fact or fiction whom Sam had ever known.

They walked home in the pale light of dawn. Dean seemed to think that whatever was out there—if anything—would be less likely to strike by day. "We stay out of the woods, we're probably fine."

"Probably?" Sam hadn't liked those odds.  
"We'll crack down on the lore today. Get this sonuvabitch ganked by nightfall."

"Promise?" Sam had felt five again, asking like that, but Dean didn't point out his immaturity. Just cuffed him on the back of the head and smiled fondly. "Promise."

In the light of the morning, Sam rubs a weary hand over his eyes. Dean had pointed out that they needed to sleep, and so Sam had pretended to—but as soon as his brother's even breathing had reassured him, he slipped silently from his bunk and made his way into the kitchen.

It's been productive, even though his head is humming with weariness and every miniscule muscle in his eyes feels strained. It's been productive—he's found something, and he gets to his feet to go and shake his still-slumbering brother awake when Dean wanders into the kitchen.

Morning-Dean is something of a spectacle—rubbing the pillow-creases out of his face (that's what you get for sleeping face-down) and with his usually carefully flicked-up hair standing out every which way.

"Dude," Dean says, fixing a sleepily peeved eye upon him. "Why are you up? It's—"

"It's ten o'clock," Sam interrupts crisply; or at least, it's supposed to be crisp. it comes out kind of mumbly.

Dean's gaze sharpens. "You didn't get any sleep."

Sam shrugs, caught. "Yeah? So? There was work to do."

Dean purses his lips, displeased. It's an unspoken Dean-code that he is allowed to sacrifice food, sleep, and general health for Sam or Dad or God-knows-what—but Sam isn't.

Sam doesn't care (not really). This is important; and he's fifteen, old enough to make his own decisions.

"I found something," he says, and Dean's eyes shift from exasperated chagrin to interest.

"Guess sleep is overrated," he murmurs, taking the seat across from Sam. "What have you got?"

Sam licks his lips. "It's pretty creepy."

"I'm sure I've heard worse. Shoot."

"It's an...Asin," Sam says, tapping a forefinger on the faded words _Myths and Legends of the Alsea Native American Tribe. _

He's not surprised when Dean snorts. "What the hell?"

"Asin," Sam repeats patiently. "It's...well, we weren't far off. It's like a female Wendigo. Native American nightmare stuff. She sings to get kids into the woods and then she..." he pauses.

The Family Business has given him an iron stomach for most horrors, but somehow this is …closer.

"She eats them," Dean finishes, so Sam doesn't have to. "Nasty."

"Yeah," Sam stands up, blinks, thinks that he may have screwed himself over as far as action goes. He's bone-tired.

"What's it take to gank this mother?" Dean grabs a poptart out of the cupboard and jams an unreasonably large piece of it into his mouth.

Normally, Sam would make some derogatory remark about the legitimacy of the word "ganking," which has always been a favorite of Dean's...but today he just doesn't have the energy. Doesn't have the time. "It says nothing about killing her," he admits.

Dean leans over his shoulder, munching his poptart. "Associated with huckleberries," he says. "Huh."

"What?" Sam asks.

"Saw some by the road, the other day. Kinda like blueberries."

"Yeah, I know." Sam brushes the crumbs of Dean's makeshift breakfast off the pages.

"Well, what do you want to do?" Dean runs a hand through his hair, restoring it to its usual state.

Sam looks up at him quick, startled. Dean's asking _his_ opinion? Dean thinks _he_ has a say in this?

It's invigorating. And kind of terrifying. "There's those disappearances up where Dad probably went," he says.

Doesn't look at Dean when he mentions Dad. Doesn't wait to see whether Dean winces or not.

"Guess they're goners," Dean observes softly, after a pause. Then, "But...maybe Dad got there in time."

"Not if the Asin is here," Sam points out, and that tiny, dreadful silence falls—that silence they've known for...almost forever, the silence that means _what if Dad didn't make it._

Dean breaks the silence. Dean always does, because Sam knows that Dean doesn't want him to be afraid. "Where does it live?"

"Dark and damp," Sam answers. "Of course." He's trying to wrap his mind around this, this whole _we've got to kill or gank or what-the-hell-ever this thing without help, without Dad_, but it's like he can't process it.

"There anything like that around here?"

Sam swallows. "One of those local history books mentioned an abandoned mineshaft. For silver, or gold, or something. Back from the Gold-Rush days." He lifts a shoulder when Dean looks at him. "What? It was an interesting book. Plus it paid off."

Dean just mutters, "Geekboy," kind of affectionately, and hands Sam a poptart. "Gotta eat up, Sammy. We have work to do."

"It's Sam," Sam corrects automatically, but he eats the poptart. It's slightly stale.

"Huckleberries," Dean muses, scanning the book. "Doesn't say whether it's good or bad for this bitch. Though I guess...well, the Indians avoided 'em. Maybe they were right to—or maybe they're the only thing that would work." He smacks a hand against the cover, stands up. "Guess it's the best we've got."

"For...?"

"A weapon," Dean explains, grinning. "Pack a shotgun round with some ground-up leaves or somethin'. I don't know."

"Is that going to work?" Sam's skeptical. "I mean, even if they're deadly to her. You really think you can pack—"

Dean shrugs. "We'll just have to figure it out. "He moves for the weapons bag, and Sam feels a wave of panic rise in him. Dean's so casual, so eager to take this creature on...with little knowledge or advantage. Shotgun shells full of leaves.

_Of course,_ Sam thinks. _This is about Dad_.

It's always about dad. Dean probably figures that if he kills this monster, Dad will be proud of him. Dad will talk to him.

Dad won't leave him again.

It's sick that Dean would risk his life for that—hell, he'd risk everything. _Everything but me, _he realizes, and wonders if that's supposed to make him feel better.

Also—"Dean—you know I'm going with you."

"Of course," Dean nods, but it's too quick.

"All the way," Sam persists, and knows from the look on his brother's face that he's caught him.

"Sammy..."

"I mean it," Sam says, firmly (maybe a little desperately). "You can't do some sort of stupid suicide mission, just because—"

Dean cuts him off so he can't finish. "You can run re-con, keep watch—"

"You're not going in alone." Sam sets his jaw, pulling out all the stops on _stubborn_. It would usually work, too, but Dean's got one non-negotiable point. One thing he won't cave on. _Take care of Sammy_. It's practically ingrained in his DNA.

It's the only thing he won't give in on, even to Sam.

Sam has the uneasy feeling that he's hit solid steel on this, in a way he doesn't even with Dad. But before he can form another argument, there's a pounding on the door.

Dean grabs his gun, holds it behind his back. Opens the door.

Sam can't see who it is, but then Dean says—"Rachael?"

Sam's on his feet and beside his brother in a flash. He takes one look at Rachael's face—tear-streaked and deathly pale, and she doesn't have to say a word, at least not to Sam.

Sam just—_knows._


	15. Dean: Part the Fourth

**A/N: Hi all—sorry for the delay! This chapter was tough to write because so much important stuff needed to happen. I hope you all enjoy it! I plan to start writing the next one tomorrow.**

**Reviews are ALWAYS so lovely…*hint, hint* haha.**

_Dean_

He can't count the times he's seen a crying girl, and that probably makes him something of a terrible person, but he doesn't care. It takes him less than a second to determine that these aren't the tears of _"You're leaving?"_ or _"My goldfish died_!" or his personal favorite, _"You did _what?_"_

These are the tears of someone who never cries. (He'd know).

Beside him, Sam's gone paper-white, and Dean grabs him by the bicep, to make sure that he doesn't topple over.

"What's going on?" he asks fiercely, because _someone_ has to keep it together.

Rachael swallows hard. He's only met her on a handful of occasions, but he can tell that something's messed her up bad. She's close to falling apart.

"It's Emily," she says. "She's...she's missing."

It's already a warm day, but her words make him feel like a rush of cold air just slipped through the open doorway behind her. Rachael's upset because she thinks there's a human murderer in the woods, but...and this would be almost comical if it weren't ten times more terrifying..._that_ would be almost preferable.

They're not up against a human. They're up against a centuries old cannibal, that—shotgun shells of huckleberry leaves aside—they've really no idea how to kill.

"Uh...come in," Dean tells her, because he needs to think—think of how to gank this fugly bastard, and even more so, what the hell he's supposed to do with Sam and Rachael.

Rachael and Sam both sort of shuffle after him and stand in the middle of the floor, staring at him. The stares are almost identical, except that Sam knows more than Rachael does.

But both of them expect _him_ to do something.

Dean swears fluently in his mind, and says aloud, "Are you sure?"

"She's not at home," Rachael says. She's wrapping her arms around herself, like girls do when they're scared. Her voice is pretty steady though, and Dean can tell she's physically forcing herself to keep it together. "I came downstairs and she... well, there was cereal on the table, but she was gone."

"Is your Mom at home?" Sam asks, and Dean's grateful—grateful to see that Sam is starting to get control of himself too. He needs Sam. Doesn't want to have to, but it's true.

Rachael shakes her head. "She's at work."

"Emily didn't go with her?"

"No. There were footprints going down the path...she went for a walk and then there's...no trace."

Normally, Dean did would tell her to calm down. But there's an Asin in the woods, and the lorebook said _lures by singing._

Emily'd heard the singing, Sam said. Emily'd felt the pull.

He jerks his head in Sam's direction and Sam immediately heads to the bedroom, where the weapons duffel is.

"We'll find her," Dean says stolidly, a pat response though he has no idea how they're going to do it. _If_ they can even do it.

"I...I didn't call the police," Rachael murmurs. She looks ashamed. "I'm an idiot—I just rushed right here. Do you have a phone?"

"Um...calling the police, not the best idea," Dean says, and then curses herself. _She's not gonna buy that_.

She doesn't, unsurprisingly. "Why the hell not? My sister is out there with some goddamn serial killer! She's—she's probably d-de—" She can't finish the word, and he doesn't blame her. Thinks of what it would be like if Sam—

_Focus_. He can hear the clank of the weapons in the other room—Sam's taking inventory. Sam needs to hurry the hell up. "Rachael," Dean starts in softly, "Rachael, there's no murderer."

Her face twists—disbelief, anger, fear. "What? Are you telling me this is all sort of some of sick prank? Are you—"  
"No, no, I'm not." Just for once, it would be nice if someone could take this without the whole freak-out routine. "There's something out there...something after your sister. But—" he pauses for the briefest of moments—"It's not human."

That stills her. Then her eyes narrow. "You _bastard_. You think this is funny?"

_Dammit. _It just...it always has to be this way. "No, I don't. I'm serious."

She takes a step back. She's furious, and starting to be afraid. Of course. She thinks he's a crazy person, or a sicko trickster, or a combination of the two. "Are you serious? She is _all I have_." It isn't much more than a whisper. "And I don't know where the hell she is."

"I understand," he says. "But—you have to trust me."

He tries to explain in as short a time as he can—this is what they do, this is their life. Him and Sam and Dad, three against a world of monsters everyone else doesn't believe in.

"I'll admit it," he adds, a desperate last appeal. "I _am _a lying bastard more often than not. But not about this. I wouldn't lie about your sister."

Sam chooses this moment to reappear with a couple of sawed-offs and a belt full of hunting knives. "Ready?" he asks.

Dean is. And Rachael—

She sets her jaw. "You're either telling the truth, or you're a couple of lunatics. You've kidnapped Emily, or something else has. You're going to kill me, or something else is." She moves in close to Sam, slips one of the knives out of his belt before he even expects it. "I'll take my chances."

_For Emily,_ goes unspoken.

Dean thinks he'll probably never meet anyone quite like her again.

"It's an Asin," he explains. "Native American nightmare crap. Basically it sings to get kids into the woods, and then eats them." He doesn't even try to break it gently. There's no time for that.

She swallows, skepticism and trust warring behind her eyes. Finally, she says, "OK. How do we kill it?"

"Well—Sam and I are going to try to..." he's not sure what Sam and he are going to do, but he knows she can't come farther than the outskirts of the woods. "You—you can run recon. You can—"  
"Stay safely by the sidelines?" She fixes him with a stony glare. "I don't think so."

_Great_. Now not only is Sam coming—_that_ kind of got decided once they knew Emily was taken, once there was a life on the line, but Dean doesn't have to like it—but he's got a civilian on his hands as well. A motivated one, but entirely unexperienced.

"Sure," he says slowly, but she's not easily deceived.

"You try any of that, handcuff me to the table-leg crap I will kick your ass." She slips a small can of pepper-spray out of her pocket. "Don't try me."  
He almost laughs, despite himself. "Seriously. You carry that everywhere?"

"Only where I need it."

"You could die out there."

"If it was Sam," she says, reading his thoughts again, "Would you care?"

He doesn't answer. Doesn't need to.

"Guys," Sam says urgently, "We need to go. Right now."

Dean tries to form some sort of plan, because that's what he's supposed to do. _Have a plan_. Sam has the presence of mind to grab the lorebook and a map off the table. They'll need to know where the mine-shaft is.

The day is almost belligerently sunny out; golden light and birds singing, a faint breeze breathing through the layers of heat.

It doesn't look like a day for someone to die.

But then, it never does.

Never has, since a calm and peaceful night in Lawrence when it all began because everything else was ended. Because _she _was ended.

Dean forces himself to focus on the sunlight warming his shoulders, not the coldness in the pit of his stomach. Every time he's on a hunt, he thinks of her.

He doesn't tell Sam. He doesn't need to tell Dad.

"Dean." Sam gestures towards the lip of the road. "That's them. Huckleberries."

They root up what plants they can and fill their pockets. Dean won't let himself contemplate the idiocy of this, because he has no idea what he's actually going to do with them.

He has no idea what he's going to do at all.

He can barely bring himself to look at them—Rachael, grim-faced to hide her fear, and Sam, who looks very resolute and very much younger.

Dean should not have let them come. But Dean can't do this alone.

He hates himself for that.

"I guess it's into the woods now, huh?" Rachael asks. The balmy smell of fir and damp and darkness floats out to envelop them.

Dean grits his teeth to repress a least there's no singing.

_Yet._

"Stay sharp," he says, because he's the leader, the one in charge (with three lives on his hands...four if you count his, which he kind of doesn't) and it's his job to say things.

Moving silently across the forest floor, laden with fragrant needles, is surprisingly easy. But Dean's not comforted. If they can move swift and silent, so can It...not to mention that it may have super-speed, like a Wendigo.

Hell, it can probably fly. Teleport, for all he knows.

And that's just the problem. He barely knows anything.

He grinds his teeth together hard and promises himself and Mom and whoever the hell is listening..._I won't let them down. Not Sammy._

A few steps behind him, Sam stops. Dean turns around, hears the rustle of paper. It's the map.

"The mine-shaft's not far," Sam murmurs softly.

Once again, their path is laid before them. It's unsettling, how simple this is. _Too simple_.

They go in silence after that.

Rachael's hardly dressed for a hunt, a flimsy t-shirt and shorts. Then again, the likelihood of any of them getting out alive is slighter than Dean will let himself admit, so scraped knees is mild by comparison.

They haven't been walking very long, it seems, but then...time is hard to keep track of. The wood is not so sinister from the inside, but there's a heaviness, a drowsiness that folds in around them that makes Dean aware, in the back of his mind, that they're in ten times as much danger as they ever were on the outskirts.

There's no sign of the monster. Not a glimpse or a sound or a song.

Dean would like to think she—it—is off guard.

It's more likely that she's watching.

"There," Sam breathes, behind him, and Dean fixes his eyes on the moss-covered mound in the center of the path. A crushed wooden door in the side, near overgrown with woodland vegetation, yawns like a mouth full of broken teeth.

Dean feels a chill climb his 're here.

"Plan?" he hears himself say hoarsely, and curses inwardly. He shouldn't be asking Sam for a plan. _Sam shouldn't have to be here_.

But Sam doesn't make note of his incompetence. Just sets his jaw and shoves his bangs out of his eyes and says, "We need to find her lair. Then Rachael finds Emily and you and I kill it." He says it like that's going to work. Like Emily's alive. Like they've got a fighting chance.

Dean doesn't argue, though, because it wouldn't do any good. It's not like they're turning back now.

"Follow my lead," is what he comes up with at last. He realizes offhandedly that pretty much everything he's said for the past half-hour have been clichés, dry and empty. But that's all he's got. Maybe that's all he is—a predetermined failure.

Well, now is when he'll find out.

It's a tricky business, getting through the mangled entrance of the mind. There's a narrow way in and then a swift drop of about fifteen feet, where there probably used to be a lift. It looks very different from the mines Dean's ever known about (or seen, in all their travels) and he wonders how much is archaic and how much is the remodeling efforts of the Asin. He really hopes it's less oft the latter. Who knows how many hellacious booby traps the monster has built in.

He takes the drop first, because he knows how to land. Sam comes next, and then Rachael jumps into Dean's arms.

It's very _Dirty Dancing,_ he supposes. If they weren't trying to catch a cannibal nightmare in an abandoned mineshaft, he'd probably try to kiss her at some point.

If they get out, maybe he will.

_Like that's gonna happen._ He sets her down quickly. He's pretty much decided that one of them dying is a definite, and it needs to him. Civilians should be saved. Sam _must_ be saved.

The tunnel of the mine stretches out before them, and the flashlights do little to slice through the cloying blackness. There's no sign of their quarry (or of their hunter, to be more realistic), but the earthy smell of underground is beginning to mingle with something fouler.

Dean knows that stench—the stench of flesh, dead and undead.

He signals to Sam to ready his weapon. Vaguely, he thinks that the huckleberries were likely a bad idea. The freaking Indians avoided them. So more likely than not, filling their pockets with the damn stuff makes them a trio of magnets.

There's probably some way to use that to their advantage, but Dean can't think of it.

The tunnel takes a sharp turn, and Dean senses the opening of the narrow passage into a larger room.

_Finally. The lair._

He can't bring himself to be excited about it. All it does is increase his sense of dread.

"Lights," he hisses at Sam, and they get out a couple more of the flashlights. Dean draws in a breath, fully expecting to find himself inches from a gruesome visage, but as they illuminate the room a few shades more there's—nothing. No monster, at least.

There is something, at the opposite end of what is rather large, seemingly circular room.

Shapes. It's just short of pitch, even with the gleam of the flashlights' eyes. But Dean's been doing this a long time. He's accustomed to darkness. He knows those shapes.

"Hang back," he whispers, to Rachael—and to Sam, really, because it's up to Dean to shield what little innocence Sam has left. Sam doesn't need to see the munched-on bodies of men and women and children, and—_please God not—_Emily.

Dean shifts forward. Footsteps sure, heartbeat less so. The forms are strung up against the rotting shafts that were built into the mine over a century ago. Dead bodies and a cannibal monster aside, Dean considers that it would kind of really suck for the roof to cave in.

Another step forward. He smells blood and sweat and death.

One of the figures shifts, groaning faintly.

_Alive._ But that's not what makes Dean stiffen. That's not what makes his throat close up, or his hands go ice-cold, locked around his sawed off.

He _knows_ that groan, that shape.

He raises the flashlight higher until he sees the blood-streaked face. He hears Sam, a few steps behind him, draw in a sharp whistle of breath.

They say it together, a unison of disbelief.

"_Dad?_"


	16. Rachael: Part the Fourth

**A/N: Hey, sorry for the delay! This chapter was hard to write because it's kind of action-packed. As such, I hope it turned out OK. **

**Warning: it is a bit gory/creepy (nothing more than the show). There is some violence. Nothing too graphic.**

_Rachael_

So this is their father. She takes the news almost calmly, even moves forward to help as much as she can with getting him down (tries hard not to see what's left of the others who hang beside him) and she maybe even thinks that sure, this makes sense, this _is_ what their father would look like—rough and grim and probably tough as nails beneath the blood and grime. He's sure no traveling mechanic.

She's not too freaked over meeting him, because she's got plenty of other things to worry about—like that Dean wasn't lying and there _is_ a monster and _where the hell is Emily?_

She's about to scream it out, the words jagged, slicing up her throat as they tear their way out, when she feels Dean eyes on her.

_We'll find her._ He doesn't have to say it.

She sees him turn to his father, slipping an arm around him to hold him up. "Dad, there's a girl. We're looking for a girl."

Rachael can't breathe, until she sees the older man nod.

But then he looks down, defeated, trying to find the words, and her relief turns to horror.

"It—it just took her. He jerks his head—the motion takes effort—in the direction of one of the tunnels that Rachael sees gaping into the darkness around them. "I couldn't—"

She lunges forward, won't let him finish, fists her hands in the blood-caked collar of his shirt. "You let her die?"

He shoves her off, surprisingly strong, and shoots Dean a _look_. "Dean. Get her under control."

If Dean touches her right now, she knows she'll lose it. Once again, she's surprised. He just looks at her. "Let him finish, Rachael." His eyes plead with her, and she feels herself give in.

_After all, it's not like I can change anything now..._

She stumbles back to stand beside Sam, who shoots her a sympathetic glance under his bangs—though she can see the gleam of unshed tears brimming up in his eyes.

_Sam thinks she's gone too._

Their father is speaking again, though, and she forces herself to listen even though she wants nothing more than to be gone from this hellhole down in the desperate depths of earth, nothing more than to be free of knowing and fearing, nothing more than to _have Emily safe._

"I haven't heard it yet," their father says.

"Heard what?" Dean's face is pale in the faint yellow glow of flashlights.

"The laughing."

Sam's breath draws in, sharp and uneven. "She's—"

Rachael never knows what he was going to say.

Because just then, the laughing starts.

A high, keening sound. In movies, the laughter of the insane is always terrifying because it doesn't seem natural.

But this doesn't seem _human._

It's _not_ human. Something older, something darker.

It's triumphant.

"She's going in for the kill," their father says. "You've probably got a couple minutes. If that."

Dean's voice is strangely calm, but she sees tenseness in the lines of his body. "I don't know how to kill it, Dad."

His father fumbles in the the pockets of his shirt, gives him something. "Huckleberry leaves."

"Yeah, got those."

"You've got to burn her."

"It's a bomb," Dean says, turning over the something in his hand. "A blueberry bomb." His lips curl up in a smile, amused and fierce. "Right."

She almost hates him for smiling until she remembers that they have to stay sane, somehow, and maybe this is his way.  
"We've got to go," Sam says. The laughing's louder now, shaking the cavern. Rachael thinks if she wasn't so angry, she'd be terrified.

Dean nods. Tucks the bomb in his overshirt as though he isn't holding death above his heart, and heads to the mouth of the tunnel where the laughter's loudest. He turns to Sam. "You stay with Dad. And Rachael."

"I'm coming," she spits out. She is. She has to, if it's the last thing she does.

He pauses, shakes his head. His eyes flick to his father.

Unexpectedly, his father nods. "Let her go."

Dean's jaw tightens, but he only says, "Yessir."

She matches his footstep, tries to match his near silent breathing. The darkness closes around them.

The laughing's getting nearer.

"It can probably see in the dark," she hears Dean say, soft and level. "You've got to be ready."

She's anything but.

They round a corner, and she feels a rush of foul air. The room opens around them.

She can't see a thing.

But the laughing's stopped. Instead she hears the sickening crunching and tearing of something..._eating._

The scream rises in her throat, agony and horror and something much more terrible.

But Dean's quicker than her, and his hand is over her mouth before she makes a sound, and before she knows quite what's happened, he whirls her flat against him, his arm tight around her, centering her.

The warmth of his breath on her ear is strangely comforting. "Don't." It's the quietest whisper that she's ever hears, but it seems to go straight through her. His fingers trace her arm gently, reassuringly. "You can't do this now."

She shakes against him. _But it's...it's Emily._

He knows the question without hearing it. "You don't know that." His cheek is pressed against her temple, and she feels the scrape of his stubble. "You've got to get a hold on it. Anger, not fear. It's the only way we can do this. It's the only way I ever do this."

She waits a beat, then nods.

He relaxes against her, just the tiniest fraction. "OK," he says. "I've got to turn on the light, and once I do—it'll see us. It could probably see us now, but I don't think...it's not looking." He releases her, and she tries to stuff down the sudden longing she feels to have his arms around her again. "Once I do this, that's it."

_It's over,_ she finishes, in her mind.

"Turn it on," she says, aloud, and closes her fingers around the knife in her hand.

He turns on the light.

She does know what she'd thought she's see—but she's not ready for what she does. The thin beam doesn't illuminate much, but it shows enough. A miserable mess of...Rachael doesn't want to know what—and above, a figure, rising—

She sees gray flesh, hanging like an ill-fitted garment around a skeletal form that is nothing like any monster Rachael's ever heard of. The long, gory fingers, the needle sharp teeth, the empty sockets that are kindled deep within by a light not of the world—if she makes it out of here, she'll probably never sleep again.

The creature starts to laugh, and lunges, quick and lethal, at Dean.

The light skews wildly across the ceiling of the cavern as he moves to the side, reflex-fast.

Rachael feels her palms go slick with sweat. The creature fixes its not-eyes on her. The cruel claws, covered in blood—_Emily's?_—reach for her throat.

Rachael slashes with the knife, once, twice, but the claws sink into her arm and she _does_ scream this time, pain arching along her arm, her shoulder, her spine.

She hears Dean shout some creatively profane insult, and the creature turns, shrieking when Dean's knife pins deep into its forehead. It goes for the kill this time, and Rachael almost forgets her own pain when she sees the claws tear across Dean's chest. He falls, hard, and the monster stoops over him, jaw almost unhinging as it lowers its maw towards his face. Rachael throws her knife and it clatters uselessly far from its mark. She won't be quick enough—she can't—

But Dean smiles, and she thinks she hears him say, "Thanks." He reaches into the tattered remains of his shirt and she remembers the bomb. But she's not clever, like Dean—she doesn't know how this helps until she sees him thrust it down the Asin's throat.

The creature clutches, gags, lets go of him—

Rachael hears the click of a lighter, the flicker of flame, sees Dean's hand whip back for one more throw.

Rachael wraps her head in her arms so she doesn't have to watch, but she can't help but hear—the rip and tear and howl, the crackle of flames.

Then there's silence.

Dean groans, swears. Then, "You alright?"

She raises her head. He's propped up against the wall of the cavern, grinning at her. Maybe this is how he gets his kicks. She can think of no reason for glee at the moment.

"Yeah," she says. "I'm alright."

She moves forward to help him, trying not to look at...anything...but he stumbles to his feet, grimacing only a little. The triumphant look fades from his face when he surveys the floor. The Asin is in a gruesome, smoking heap—but there's more.

Much more.

Then Rachael sees it. A battered silver locket, red with blood.

She doesn't scream this time. She just falls. On her knees in the blood and the bone and filth, and she wonders why she'd thought what she felt before was anguish.

She feels Dean kneel beside her, feels his arm around her shoulders, and she thinks that this is when she's supposed to start crying.

Except that she can't.  
Because this was Emily. Her sister.

Her life.

The seconds stretch on like centuries, and fourteen years of memories seem to fade into nothing. They're past. They're gone.

_Emily_'s gone.

And then—

"Rachael? I-is that you?"


	17. Emily: Part the Fifth

_Emily_

Night's come when she finally has time to think over it all. Over the ambulance and police, and lying here in the hospital while Mom cried and held her hand and she tried to say _"it's all fine now, I promise"_ and it is, truly. It's fine.

But not how Mom and the police and the doctors think.

Emily knows how it really is—how Dean and Sam and their Father saved her from the monster, and how they must never tell anyone because the world is full of blacked-out windows and tightly locked secrets, because people would much rather throw away the key to truth than see what lies in the darkness.

Emily's seen.

Emily will see for the rest of her life.

But Emily knows she has a choice. She knows this because Sam said so, not in words but by a quick, firm press to her hand before the paramedics took her away. She doesn't remember much from the hazy moments, when her adrenaline ran dry after her last big effort—finding Rachael—but she remembers that.

It's there, all there, in the darkness and in the light, before and behind and around and even sometimes within, and it makes lots of sense to be terrified but somehow it makes even more to be brave.

She thinks that's probably the only way Sam can live.

Mom goes home at noon, because she has to sleep, and Rachael comes. Rachael's arms and legs are scratched and bruised, but Rachael is happy. She won't let go of Emily's hand.

Emily doesn't mind.

The only time Rachael leaves for five minutes is because Sam and Dean visit. Emily notices that Dean is moving stiffly, like he's in pain, and she vaguely remembers that he was bleeding when—when—

Rachael goes out in the hallway with Dean. Sam stays, standing by her bed with his bangs tangling over his eyes and his hands jammed in his pockets.

She pats the bed._ Sit down._ Aloud, she says, "Hi, Sam."

When he looks at her, it bowls her over almost more than anything else. His eyes fix on hers, and she feels like they're linking, soul to soul. She feels like he'll never let her go.

"I'm really sorry," he whispers, his lips forming the words carefully.

She shrugs. It hurts. A lot of things hurt, as the numbness fades, and yes, she's worried that the numbness will fade for her memories too—

"It's not your fault. And you helped save me."

He doesn't smile. "I didn't want you to have to go through that."

"Why do you know?" she asks. It's not really changing the subject; they're good at finding the threads of each others' thoughts.

Sam sits down on the edge of the bed. He doesn't quite look like he belongs there. It's something, she realizes, that she's noticed about Dean and Sam—they don't really look like they belong anywhere. It makes her sad, but she doesn't know how to fix it.

He answers her question after a moment. "Because something killed my mom." He says it softly and her heart clenches for him.

"I'm so sorry."

"I didn't even know her," he tells her, and she thinks that maybe that's the saddest part of all.

"My dad left us for somebody else," she blurts out. "But I'm glad I knew him. I don't think I'd know how to love him if I hadn't."

"But you want to love him?"

It's funny, that it took a monster and a long chapter of horror that she doesn't want to remember and can't ever forget, to bring to the foreground of her mind the truth that was tearing her apart inside because she didn't think it was allowed. But now she knows there's uglier things in the world to see, and even they don't hurt as much as family.

"I do love him," she says. "But he's gone."

And somehow it's—done. Just like that.

Sam's agile fingers trace hers, a silent apology for wrongs that aren't his.

When he next speaks, the words are choked out. "You're—you're amazing, Emily."

There's a part of her that knows he's far from the first boy to say it to a girl, if not in these exact circumstances. But the words sound brand-new, like nobody's ever thought of them before.

She holds his hand, and ruins the moment because she has to.

"You're leaving."

His cheeks flush, but the rest of his face is pale. "No. No, I won't leave you."

Her throat is scratchy inside, because this was—is—a beginning. But it's also an end.

He doesn't let go of her hand until Dean comes in, slips her a smile, and tells Sam they need to head out.

He goes reluctantly, shoulders slumped. It's the first time Emily thinks about really crying. The tears well up under Rachael's watchful eye, but they don't fall, because she sees Dean slip an arm around Sam's shoulder, say something that takes the despair out of Sam's posture.

She leans back against her pillows, relieved.

At least Sam belongs somewhere.

But as much as she wishes, it's not here.


End file.
